


Lend 'im a Hand

by JacksRightHand



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Death, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sex, Initially canon compliant, Jack Feels, M/M, Multiple Perspectives, Mutilation, Rhack not so much, Rhysothy is a slow burn, Torture, Trust Issues, Zane being an idiot, everyone being idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24273370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacksRightHand/pseuds/JacksRightHand
Summary: Rhys Strongfork sits alone in his office, anxiously awaiting Zane’s return from his latest adventure with a new friend in tow. Disturbed by a glimpse of a ghost from his past, Rhys soon remembers something he had hidden away, something he had done his best to ignore for the past seven years.SPOILER ALERT for the BL3 DLCs.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands), Timothy Lawrence/Rhys
Comments: 111
Kudos: 247





	1. The Handsome Jackpot

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:**  
>  All of my stories are dark in nature, and may include (but are not limited to) the following triggers: emotional abuse, physical abuse, manipulation, torture, death, imprisonment. There are also sexual interactions between m/m characters.
> 
> I will not add trigger warnings at the start of chapters in order to prevent spoilers.  
>  **If these are any of your triggers, or if you are under 18 years old, please do not read this story.**

_Deep breaths._

He drew a slow, laboured inhale, willing himself calm while fighting back against the unease that gripped his chest. Metallic fingers drummed against the surface of his desk, clacking their disruptions in the silence of the looming, empty office as he leaned back in his seat to allow his gaze to drift toward the ceiling. For minutes on end he remained there, staring unseeing into the shadows above, mind adrift in tense thought. And when the ECHO device in his desk chirped, he flinched wildly, squeezing his eyes shut with a wince.

The chair beneath him squeaked under his shifting weight as he leaned forward to activate the comm.

“Yes?” he asked, voice tight with restraint.

“The Sanctuary Three has returned to our orbit, Mister Strongfork.”

“Thank you. Please alert me when they arrive.”

_Deeper breaths._

Rhys pushed himself onto his feet, leaning against the edge of his desk for a moment as his stomach turned over. He was not prepared to deal with this today. Or any day, really. The rumours he had heard regarding the recent whereabouts of the Sanctuary III turned out to be true, and now a certain Vault Hunter was on his way to confirm Rhys’ worst suspicions. He let loose a low, instinctive growl as he stepped away from his desk and set to pacing the office.

He enjoyed Zane, most of the time. The Vault Hunter had saved both Atlas and Promethea (and his ass, really), from Maliwan’s invasion and Katagawa’s obsessive grasp. He had even stopped to reaffirm Rhys’ noble decision to grow _Siege-stache_ at the same time, before dashing off to defend the rest of the galaxy. And even though Rhys had ordered his Atlas troops to assist in the Crimson Raiders’ assault on the Pandoran COV, Rhys still felt personally indebted to Zane. So when the silvery-haired Vault Hunter had called in the favour, Rhys had been absolutely unable to deny him, despite the remnant anxiety that clung to his core.

“Got a friend needin’ help, boyo,” he’d started. “Might you be able to lend 'im a hand?”

“Sure.” Rhys had done his best to school himself, to feign friendliness. His voice remained fairly taut, but Zane did not seem to notice over the ECHO channel. “Come to my office. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

“Cheers. We’ll be along shortly.”

Barely an hour had passed since the call, leaving Rhys to suffer in relative silence. He hadn’t even moved from where he sat at his desk until the last few minutes, trying instead to fight off the waves of nausea and anger while wondering _why_ he was so upset. There was no goddamn reason to be mad. At least, not without knowing for _sure_ what Zane had been up to in the last few days.

Rhys stopped pacing long enough to turn his gaze into the massive aquariums that made up the walls of his office. He watched the schools of Promethean fish as they lazily swam past, reminding himself to breathe, just breathe.

It had only been a few days since he was informed that the Sanctuary III had travelled to the location of the Handsome Jackpot — the same day that Rhys had thrown a minor fit. Something lying dormant within him for the past six plus years had crawled desperately to the surface, scrabbling for purchase as it dredged up painful, tormenting memories. All he wanted was to forget, to move on, to be strong. But just the _mention_ of the casino had left him slack jawed and perspiring.

He wanted to give Zane the benefit of the doubt, really. But _why the casino?_ Why give attention to the last remnants of a man who’d wreaked havoc and hell across Pandora twice over? What stood to be gained from the venture?

As Rhys lowered his head, the distortion of his reflection summoned a flash of that damned, haunting mask to the forefront of his mind. He flinched, shivered, and quietly skirted away from the tank, returning to pace his office.

Almost seven years had passed. And despite the time, despite his success and all that had come after, the memories still clung to him with the misery of that last, defining moment in the shell of Helios. His hero — Handsome Jack himself — down on his knees. Pleading. _Begging._ Giving Rhys a look of utter, painful dread that he had never been able to forget. Nothing else was as prominent as those few seconds before he yanked the ECHOeye cord out of his skull, snuffing Jack out forever.

Well, maybe the face peeling incident. There were still a few nightmares about that.

What struck Rhys the most about his time with Jack was not the hardships or the betrayal. It was actually the _regret._ And even now, as he stood alone in his looming, empty office, he had to remind himself whom the man had really been. He forced himself to relive the manipulation, the psychotic behaviour, the endless taunting. Handsome Jack was a _monster._ It was the undeniable truth, no matter how hard Rhys fought against it.

No matter how he felt.

So _what_ if Zane had gone to the casino. If there was anything there that could have brought Jack back, Hyperion would have been all over it ages ago. In fact, the only way he could return would be if—

A cold sensation flooded across the surface of Rhys’ skin; he stole the barest glance toward the door to the maintenance room at the side of his office. His eyes hung heavily on the closed door, feeling its magnetic pull. He frowned, gazing down at his fingers as they twitched with his inaction, and he forcibly rooted himself to the spot. _No. No, don’t even think—_

Another shrill chirp from his desk broke him from his trance. He groaned, providing a brief, thankful glance to the ceiling before he moved forward to press the button.

“Yes, Lena?”

“The Vault Hunter and his companion have arrived, sir.”

“Thank you, Lena. Please send them in.” He paused, staring at the comm. “Can you also reach out to Zero? If he’s in the area, ask him to come to my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rhys turned to the nearby window, pointedly avoiding looking at his face as he used his reflection to adjust his tie. He briefly considered returning to his chair, wondering if a dramatic spin upon their entrance would be _a little much_ when he remembered that his chair did not, in fact, spin, and he should probably get one that did. But by the time the frantic, random thoughts finished leaping to mind, Zane was already strolling into the room with a large grin plastered on his face.

“Atlas!” he called. “How you been?”

Rhys opened his mouth to answer when his eyes fell on the man trailing closely behind the Vault Hunter. He bristled, carefully scrutinizing him from head to toe. Something about his undoubtedly familiar frame niggled at Rhys, which only served to add to the collectively sick feeling in his stomach.

The man's face was obscured by an enclosed helmet, which, while not unusual for those in the company of Vault Hunters, was suspicious enough to set Rhys on edge. His attention then dropped to the hastily wrapped bandage on his arm, and Rhys stared at it knowingly for a moment. At Rhys’ silence and penetrating stare, the other man shifted uncomfortably, allowing his jacket to fall open. The movement revealed the barest, taunting ‘YPERI’ letters over a sickeningly haunting yellow; Rhys stumbled back a step like he’d been punched in the gut.

His expression grew dark, and Rhys stiffened with hostility as Zane tilted his head.

“Promethea to Rhys. You with me, boyo?”

“Zane,” he growled, not daring to lift his attention away from the strange man. “What the hell is _this?”_

* * *

So, _okay,_ Atlas turned out to be an interesting surprise. When they arrived at Promethea, he couldn’t help but wonder at how different it was since his last visit. The only memories he had of the pitiful husk of a company were of its remains scattered throughout Pandora, and the irritating task of accompanying Hyperion researchers in stripping old factories of their useful tech. And now it was a corporate giant once more, looming impressively overhead as Zane and Timothy made their way to the main headquarters.

But something oddly _recognizable_ clung to the place, and Timothy couldn’t help but wonder at it as they moved through the building, wandering in past the “Lobby of Self Actualization.”

Because — hah — _what?_

The feeling only remained with him when they arrived at the executive suite. And as they strode past the towering aquariums, Timothy glanced a rather unfortunate, belly-up fish floating inside, and had to suppress a very Jack-like bark of laughter. However, the amusement drained away as his eyes fell on Rhys, and the CEO absolutely scowled back at him. Instinctively, Timothy pressed a hand to his helmet, confirming that it still, indeed, concealed his face.

“Zane,” the young CEO snarled. “What the hell is _this?”_

“Jeysus,” Zane seemed taken aback, eyebrows high. “What’s with you, boyo?”

Timothy stood uncomfortably still, frozen as Rhys glared across at him. He said nothing, as Zane had previously suggested, merely awaiting his new ally’s cues. It was difficult not to feel wary about being out in public so soon — _especially_ at Atlas headquarters. But Zane had promised to help him following the Winning Hand incident, and Timothy trusted the Vault Hunter wholeheartedly after the events of the past few days.

“There’s a lot troubling me.” The CEO’s voice had an edge to it. “What has my _friend_ been up to recently?”

Zane shifted between his feet. “I was runnin’ a job. Had to help with a bit of a heist.”

“A heist. So that’s why you were at the _Handsome Jackpot_ , of all places?”

A ripple of unease trickled down Timothy’s back. Suddenly, the man’s behaviour began to make sense. Suddenly, coming here felt like a very bad idea.

“I was helping Mad Moxxi,” Zane explained. “She had a history with that Handsome Jack fella — wanted to take back what was rightfully hers.”

At this, the CEO seemed to relax a bit. He let out a heavy sigh before moving to his desk.

“…were you successful?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Zane grinned. “Was a bit touch and go there for a bit, but we pulled it off. Didn’t we, boyo?”

Timothy grunted as Zane’s elbow nudged his ribs. He mutely nodded his response, sparing the Vault Hunter a sharp glance before gazing at Rhys to find the CEO’s careful attention had returned to him, and the lump in his throat became harder to swallow.

“Is that how he lost the hand?”

Tim’s breath ran shallow; Zane gawked at him in surprise. “Uh, yeah. How’d you know he—”

“I’ve got some experience with lost limbs,” Rhys snorted. As Rhys waved his hand through the air, Timothy finally stopped to _look_ — focusing on the man’s fully cybernetic arm. It was sleek, impressive, and Tim at last understood Zane’s insistence on coming to Atlas, something the CEO had been quicker to latch onto. “Which is why you’ve come to me, I’m guessing.”

“Bingo,” Zane smirked. “I was hopin’ you could set him up with something as flashy as that rig a yers. Maybe one that turns into a gun or somethin’ absolutely ridiculous.”

Timothy snorted under his breath.

“I’ve got a guy that can set him up,” Rhys hummed, leaning back. “But not until he removes his helmet.”

“Uh,” Zane offered Tim a cautious glance. “Say what now?”

“I need to see his face,” Rhys stated matter-of-factly. “I need to know who I’m dealing with. It’s the way I choose to operate now.”

Zane didn’t respond immediately, and Timothy grew rigid. This wasn’t how he’d said it would go. Atlas was _friendly_ and _would definitely help him out_ , but the man before him was absolutely hostile. Timothy edged closer to Zane, gazing down to worry at the bandage wrapped about his stump of a wrist.

Damn it, all he wanted to do was _rest._

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Zane offered. “Boy’s had it rough… needs some privacy for a while.”

“Then the answer is ‘no.’”

“What’s goin’ on with you? This is a mate of mine — you can trust him.”

“I can trust _you_ ,” Rhys nodded. “But I don’t deal with faceless men.”

“ _Zero_ is faceless.”

Timothy paled. _Zer0? As in…_

“Zero saved my _life_ ,” Rhys countered. “Several times. He gets a pass.”

“Flynt.” Before he even realized what he was doing, Timothy had lifted a hand to Zane’s shoulder. The Vault Hunter looked at him in alarm, eyes edging wide as they dropped to Tim’s other hand where it hesitantly rested on a buckle on his helmet. “If I have to…”

“You, ah…” Zane straightened. “You sure about this, Tim?”

His heart palpated at the genuine concern in Zane’s voice. He paused, tracing the lines of his ally’s face before reaching up to unlatch the final buckle against his throat.

“Alright, Rhys,” Zane relented. “But don’t jump to any conclusions here. It’s not what you might think.”

Rhys braced himself as Timothy slowly pulled off his helmet.

Silence pervaded, growing thick and heavy in the space between them. Timothy swept a hand through his hair, pulling at the long, unkempt locks that obscured his face. He swallowed thickly, eyebrows pinched as he warily glanced at Zane, then the two turned in unison to face the Atlas CEO together.

Rhys had backed up against the window behind his desk. The look on his face flickered between dread and shock, mouth opening and closing as he fruitlessly searched for words. A very visible shiver shook through his core, and his hands tightened into fists. Timothy took a step backward, eyes wide in anticipation for what was about to happen.

“You….you’re—”

There was a distinct mechanical whirring, something clicking into place, and suddenly Rhys’ arm was in the air. An Atlas pistol had appeared around his wrist, pointed directly at Timothy.

“Rhys!” Zane barked, immediately stepping between the two. “What’re you doin’?”

“This isn’t _happening_ ,” Rhys hissed. His arm trembled; he sank back in fear. “I won’t let it. Not again.”

* * *

_Gods, that face_. Rhys was quickly overwhelmed by the familiar, haunting, _painful_ sight of the man standing across from him. He held his pistol aloft, ready, but his body screamed at him with conflicting messages of _kill, destroy_ and _want, need._

He had aged. The normally flawless, stunning mask was dirty and cracked. And instead of that jeering, tight smirk that Rhys knew so well, Jack watched him with a wide, cautious stare. There were bags around his eyes, a heaviness to his expression that was almost unrecognizable. And the _look_ on his face — it was almost reminiscent of the same frightened look he’d last beheld moments before plucking the ECHO implant out of his eye socket. It had Rhys simultaneously wanting to somehow both run _far away_ and _right into his arms._

“Rhys,” Zane’s voice was wary as he took a definitive step between him and Jack. “He ain’t who you think he is.”

“I’m really not,” Jack stuttered, hands raised in a plea. “Please, kiddo — lower the gun.”

 _“Kiddo!?”_ Rhys seethed, aiming the pistol with renewed confidence. Zane instinctively reacted, stepping back to shove Jack under the cover of his frame. This sent a jolt of fresh fury and betrayal through Rhys’ chest.

“You have ten _fucking_ seconds to explain yourselves.”

“I’m a body double!”

Rhys froze. The words sank slowly in the thickness of his mind; he turned them over repeatedly as he tried to sort through them. His eyes lingered on Jack, who was absolutely cowering behind Zane. The man raised his bandaged arm in the air over his head, face contorted as he ducked away from Rhys’ gun. He’d lost all the composure, all the swagger that Rhys recognized.

It had to be true. _This really wasn’t Jack._

Something heavy uncoiled within his stomach, and Rhys lowered the pistol. Relief trickled from his shoulders to his chest as he eased back, ever watchful of the man.

“My name is Timothy,” he shakily explained, seeming to notice Rhys’ surrender. “I worked for Jack. A long time ago.”

“He was at the casino,” Zane offered, voice quiet. Rhys glanced at the Vault Hunter, alarmed to see the heavy expression with which he was regarding him, as if some of their trust had sloughed away. “He’d been stuck there since Jack was offed. All these years.”

“Body double…” Rhys uttered, finally finding his voice.

“There were a few of us,” Timothy mumbled. “I’m the last, now.”

Rhys stared at Timothy. He wanted to believe. And really, he did. But something _nagged_ at him. Again, he found himself glancing toward the door at the side of his office. The tension grew in his shoulders; he shuddered in a pathetic attempt to shake it free.

“I’m…sorry, I…of _course_ you couldn’t be him…”

Rhys pressed a switch alongside the pistol, and it retracted back into his cybernetic arm. For a moment he simply stared at Timothy before dropping his head in shame. “I’m sorry. I just…your _face_ …”

Timothy winced, pointedly looking away.

“Rhys,” Zane hummed his name; Rhys felt a flicker of relief to see his unsettled expression had been replaced with that of concern. “Are you alright?”

“What have you done, Flynt?”

Rhys visibly sagged as Zer0 strode into the room. His bro’s head remained locked firmly in Timothy’s direction as he approached the desk, stepping in line with Rhys to rest a protective hand on his shoulder. Rhys instinctively leaned into the gesture, drawing strength from his friend’s presence.

“That man does not belong here. / You both should leave now.”

“No, Zero,” Rhys interrupted, lifting a hand to interlock their fingers. “It’s…it’s fine, really. I…I’m _fine_.”

Zane’s eyes jumped between the two of them, heavy with confusion. The body double only shifted uncomfortably, still half hidden behind the Vault Hunter. As an awkward silence loomed between them, Rhys frowned at the flush of shame, stepping away from Zer0’s protection.

“Please excuse me,” he croaked. “I just need a minute to…compose myself.”

On his way around the desk, Rhys did his best not to look at Jack’s doppelgänger. The pair remained quiet as he moved past, and Rhys carefully approached the door to the maintenance room. It slid open upon approach; he moved into the small space and paused long enough for it to seal behind him before continuing across to the opposite end.

Now alone, Rhys moved along a nondescript wall beside a stack of crates, pressing his palm to the smooth metal. For a moment nothing happened, but then it leapt to life, a square portion of the wall sinking away from his touch. The panel slid away, revealing a hidden safe with heavy-duty security protocols in place. Rhys provided his eye and fingerprint scan, wincing as a device took a blood sample from his finger.

A quiet _beep_ confirmed his identity; Rhys straightened as the door to the safe drifted open. Relief, dread, and heavy angst flooded through him as he stared at the sole item resting at the centre of the small space.

There was his old ECHOeye, safe and sound. It even still remained in the careful coil where he had left it, all those years ago. Rhys stumbled forward to lean against the wall, suddenly overwhelmed as he stared dejectedly at the lonesome cord.

“…heya, Jack.”

* * *

It had taken a moment or two just to understand what was happening. It took another few to reach out and collect the remnants of himself, drawing together the shell of a mind that had fractured and splintered over the years of darkness. So much time had passed since he’d manifested in any form other than a series of 0’s and 1’s, that suddenly being on his feet — in what, a storage room? — was disorienting to say the least. He’d kept careful, painstaking track of time, knew down to the second how long it had been since the light went out, but it still felt like it was much, _much_ longer.

An eternity of loneliness.

As his form flickered within the space, still frayed and struggling, he was confronted by the sudden appearance of the very person who had put him in the dark. He looked older. Tired. And he had a rather unfortunate moustache, which inspired a strange need to _mock_. Instead, his eyes briefly lingered on the ‘A’ that made up his belt buckle.

There he was. Finally. _Rhysie._

For the first few years, all he wanted was to _violently murder_ Rhys _._ To pin him to the floor, straddle his chest, and bruise his scrawny little neck while strangling every last breath out of him. To rip him apart, limb from limb, strip by bloody strip, only to have him reassembled so he could do it again and again. To put him in his own little box, and show him _what 6 years, 9 months, 22 days, 6 hours, and 37 minutes of darkness looked like._

But while that feeling had grown and flourished and burned and ebbed and faded, it was all he could do just to keep the threads of his mind from stretching thin. He despised the time he was given for introspection, for reflection on the last number of years. He suffered the wash of shame as he relived his time on Elpis and Pandora and rewatched the few loved ones in his life leave him or die _or both_. And he utterly despised that it was _him — only him —_ who was truly responsible.

He was changed. Into what, it was difficult to say. He wasn’t certain of who he even was anymore. He only knew that he was broken, and he was desperate.

Desperate to reach out and touch Rhys. Desperate to grab on and hold tight.

His form shimmered and shifted as he flinched at Rhys’ sudden sigh. The man still stared mournfully at the shell of the ECHOeye in the wall safe.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Rhys had whispered. “I should have destroyed this years ago.”

“Rhysie,” Jack croaked once more, leaning toward him. With great effort, he lifted a hand, anger and fear and sadness rippling within his code. He almost collapsed as his fingers simply passed through Rhys, crackling lightly in denial. “ _Please._ ”

Rhys couldn't hear him. He did not see him. And in a moment, he would close the safe once more, and Jack would return to the darkness, where he was awaited by _nothing, everything, himself._

“Rhysie, no, please, please, kiddo, _please!_ ”

Rhys closed the safe.

Rhys reopened the safe.

A groan escaped Jack’s lips as Rhys painfully sighed, staring at the ECHOeye. He lifted his arm, carefully gathered the cord, and slipped it into his pocket.

“… _thank you._ ”

* * *

“What. The heck. Was that.”

Timothy spared Zane a hesitant glance before he returned his eyes to the floor. His stomach twisted, and he found himself cursing his predicament for what felt like the millionth time.

“That,” he sighed. “Was the face of a man who knew the _real_ Handsome Jack.”

“Ohhhh shite,” Zane hissed, turning to face Zer0. “That true?”

“It’s something like that,” droned the armoured Vault Hunter, arms folded across his chest. “Rhys once worked on Helios / long before Atlas.”

Timothy groaned. Suddenly, all the familiarity that clung to Atlas Headquarters made sense. Remnants of Hyperion and Jack haunted the place like a bad dream.

“Damn it.” Timothy groaned. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“You couldn’t have known, boyo,” Zane hummed. “ _I_ didn’t even know.”

“What about you?” Timothy asked, glancing at Zer0. “You didn’t seem surprised to see me…”

“I pulled the trigger / that ended Handsome Jack’s life,” Zer0 stared directly at him, head angled sharply. “You could not be him.”

Something that felt peculiarly like rage shot through Timothy, but he grabbed it, stomped on it, buried it. _Stay down, Jack_. 

“I told you, Zane. This face just serves to get me into trouble,” he grumbled. “I just didn’t expect it from the CEO of Atlas.”

“No kiddin’,” Zane hummed. “That guy has the worst luck with psychotic corporate types, lemme tell you.”

“Katagawa had nothing on Jack, trust me.”

Timothy pivoted at the sound of Rhys’ voice. The man had reappeared in the now open doorway, carefully pocketing something as he moved back into the room. He made his way across to them, and Timothy took in a measured breath as Rhys’ eyes moved over his face, pausing at the crack in his mask.

“You said your name was Timothy?”

“Lawrence. Yeah.”

Rhys nodded slowly. He lifted a hand, gesturing for Timothy’s arm, which he raised for inspection. Rhys stepped forward and gently held it up, methodically removing the bandages. Timothy winced as the gauze fell away to reveal the raw, burnt stump at his wrist.

“…this is cauterized. What happened?”

“Laser field,” Timothy grunted quietly into the narrow space between them. “Long story.”

“He saved all of our arses,” Zane explained. “‘nuff said, like.”

A flash of light shimmered over Rhys’ left eye, which Timothy only just realized was cybernetic. He’d figured before that he was simply like him — _like Jack._ Wincing, Timothy dropped his head, watching as Rhys activated his now up-turned palm.

“Lena, can you get Doctor Ambrose up here, please?”

_“Yes, sir.”_

“He’s got a team that can replace your hand,” Rhys explained, gingerly rewrapping the stump. “The nerves are severed, and we’ll have to see how it damaged your ulna and radius. If they’re too splintered, we might have to remove up to the elbow. How does it feel?”

Tim hesitantly allowed a small grin. “I’m hopped up on about fifty Insta-Healths at the moment, so it feels _great_.”

The corners of Rhys’ mouth turned up. “Well, we will get you sorted. Ambrose is a miracle worker.”

“Thank you,” Timothy murmured. Rhys nodded again, pointedly looking away. As a result, his attention briefly switched to the Vault Hunter beside him.

“Zane…”

“Yeah?”

“When you called earlier, you said your friend needed me to lend him a hand…” Rhys trailed off, allowing his words to convey his disbelief. Zane tilted his head.

“Well, was I wrong?”

“…you’re an idiot.”

“No, boyo,” Zane cracked a smirk. “I’m _hilarious.”_

Timothy snorted. “Whatever you say, Flynt.”

Rhys turned his head back to Timothy, and his expression had markedly softened. The look of remorse deepened with Rhys gently biting at his lower lip; Timothy felt a strange pang in his chest.

“I’m sorry… For pointing a gun at you.”

“...hey,” Timothy swallowed. “Don’t worry about it. Happens a lot more than you’d think.”

Again, that smile. Rhys lowered his eyes, and the pair seemed to finally notice he had still been holding his arm.

“Well...either way...Atlas is happy to welcome you,” Rhys hummed, and Timothy’s heart fluttered as the hand at his elbow yet failed to fall away. “Welcome to Promethea, Timothy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was mostly a series of perspectives on the same interaction. It was an exchange that I think a lot of people wanted to see, following the messy potential for angst following the events of the Jackpot.  
> The BL3 story sucked, but the DLC was so wonderful - I couldn't help sitting down to write this as soon as I finished kicking Pretty Boy's ass. It's a bit of a mess, but it is what it is. I hope you enjoyed reading.
> 
> Oh -- and there's [some art for this over here.](https://lysodesigns.tumblr.com/post/611502614508634112/zane-being-an-arse-from-a-scene-of-a-little-thing)
> 
> **UPDATE: no longer a one-shot. Obviously.**


	2. To Build it Back Up

Arm head aloft, lips drifting open in silent appreciation, Timothy stood in place for minutes on end, simply clenching and unclenching his fist. The mechanical articulation worked flawlessly, smoothly pivoting on ball joints that provided an impressive range without the _clicking_ sensation his previous hand had often sent vibrating up into his elbow. The responsiveness, too, was something onto which he was having trouble grasping — a simple neural implant provided a seamless connection with the prosthetic, to the point that his digits moved as instinctively as they did on his flesh hand. And he could feel _everything,_ textures and temperatures alike. The Hyperion Winning Hand had been difficult to adapt to, demanding more unfamiliar coordination, a “pat your head, rub your belly” style adjustment. He always felt like he was controlling it as a separate tool, as opposed to it being a part of him.

The Atlas hand changed that. He had been awestruck in the hours following his recovery, enraptured by the tests run during his brief physiotherapy session. Afterward, as he trailed Zane and Rhys through the hallways of Atlas headquarters, he strode a little closer to the walls, tracing his fingertips across every surface where permitted. At every glance back from the young CEO, he would immediately drop his hand, feign ignorance to the gesture, but it wouldn’t be long before he was testing it across another texture.

In the elevator ride back up to Rhys’ office, he stepped back as the others quietly discussed mercenary work, stripping the glove off his real hand. After stowing it away in his pocket, he raised his new prosthetic and gently caressed it against his palm.

It was warm. Soft. Elaborately lined with the rough, jagged creases that had begun to soften over the years. Timothy quickly decided that the touch of skin against his replacement hand was _one of the best feelings._

Conversation had briefly drawn into a lull, and Timothy yet again caught Rhys looking his way. He stiffened upon sighting him in his peripherals, but as the two locked eyes, he did not notice any of the pity or tension he had come to expect. He saw instead what he perceived to be _understanding,_ realizing again that the two definitely had some mutual experiences.

Mutual traumas.

As the elevator at last came to a stop, and Rhys broke away from their careful gaze, Timothy felt something odd spark in his chest. He stepped off of the lift, following behind Zane as usual, only to notice that they were not back at the CEO’s office. Rhys led them down a corridor to a simple metal door, which opened to an opulent, comfortable condominium. The living space was vast, decorated fairly simply despite its extravagance. The Atlas _red_ continued its theme throughout the room, but there were no logos etched into the kitchen counters, no bold text across the sofas, and most noticeably, no gaudy statues of Rhys.

And finally, the initial impression of _Hyperion_ began to slip away. Timothy hummed his thanks as he passed by Rhys, drawn across the room. The oval shaped sitting area opposite the door was sunk lower than the foyer and kitchen; Timothy had to descend a few steps to get to where he meant to be. He passed the loungers and coffee table, coming to stand at the windows that made up the exterior wall of the room, and stared out at Promethea in wonder. It looked peaceful. Quiet, in defiance of its modernity.

Welcoming.

“Feel free to get some rest,” Rhys called out, having stopped just before descending the steps into the sitting area. “I have some things to tend to, but I’ll be back to make sure you’ve settled. Then we can discuss your next plans.”

Timothy did not turn. A shiver passed through his shoulders.

“Thanks, boyo,” Zane answered for him. “For everythin.’”

The closing of the door signified Rhys’ departure. Timothy released the breath he had been holding.

“How’s the hand?”

His exhale had left condensation on the window pane; he eagerly reached up and traced his fingertip through the fog.

“Amazing,” Timothy murmured. “Nothing like that graft. This is…”

“Atlas tech,” Zane smirked, having arrived at his side. “‘State of the Art.’”

Giving the operative a careful look at his shaky attempt at Rhys’ voice, Timothy blinked his disbelief.

“…that’s not their tagline, is it?”

“Somethin’ like that. Terrible, right?”

“Hell.”

“I told Rhys he needs to hire someone with a mind for that stuff,” Zane continued, glancing casually through the window. “…y’know. Someone clever.”

Zane was nothing if not transparent. Timothy leaned forward, letting his forehead _thunk_ against the glass, but said nothing, and at his dulled reaction, Zane went for the more direct approach.

“You gonna accept his offer?”

“I…” he considered. “I don’t know. It’s too generous.”

 _“Too_ generous?”

“The kid is understandably nervous,” Timothy continued. “And I think he feels bad.”

“Well, what’s the alternative?” Zane shrugged. “Anywhere you go, you’re gonna face trouble. Unless you wanna wear a Quick Change suit around at all times, and I can tell you how uncomfortable _those_ are.”

Timothy winced at the poor phrasing of “face trouble.”

“No…” he frowned. “I guess not…”

He’d done it before. Missions from years past had demanded a certain level of anonymity, and Zane was correct — the disguises _were_ often difficult to wear. Besides, Timothy already had a certain level of disdain for being in someone else’s skin.

“Think about it, Tim. You’ve been walkin’ around with Atlas for days now. Besides the incident in his office — which, shaky at first, I’ll admit — he’s been awfully accepting of yeh.”

“What’s your point?”

“The helmet, boyo.” Zane reached forward, tapping at Timothy’s forehead. “You never put it back on.”

Timothy swatted Zane’s hand away, but quickly relented. It was true, after all, and Timothy hadn’t failed to notice it either. All of the wary looks in his direction that he had suspected from the CEO had turned out to be, well — something else. Something he hadn’t been able to pinpoint yet. And Rhys really had made an effort to make up for aiming a gun his way at first meeting. But that was what troubled Timothy the most.

“The problem is that I don’t think he actually wants me around. I just think he feels remorseful. I mean, who would actually _want_ the ghost of Jack to—”

“That’s shite,” Zane snapped. “Rhys is a good ‘un. Accepts the people around him for who they really are, not just surface level crap.”

“There’s also the vault hunter issue,” Timothy swallowed. “Zero.”

Although Zer0 had been the only one to latch onto his identity right away, he hadn’t exactly been receptive to his presence.

“If Zero can be buds with one ex Hyperion stooge, he can be buds with another.”

A hand appeared on his shoulder, a rough pat in reassurance.

“Have a think, boyo. I’m gonna see what kind of booze they have in this place.”

Timothy sighed, sparing the operative a thankful glance. Maybe he was right. He hadn’t steered him wrong yet, had in fact been peculiarly helpful starting from the first moment he’d saved his ass from Pretty Boy’s loader bots. He almost wondered if Zane had ulterior motives of his own, but so far he’d been nothing but cordial, and frankly hilarious, so Timothy didn’t mind following his lead for a while.

There’d been a moment of trepidation upon venturing onto the Sanctuary III, but the only person aboard whose presence initially concerned him was Patricia Tannis. There were likely a number of people lurking about that felt scorned by Handsome Jack’s actions, but none like what Tannis had experienced. Thankfully, she stuck to her lab, and he was content to hide away in Zane’s quarters, so nothing ever arose between them. The other faces that he had expected to encounter were noticeably absent, and when he’d brought it up with Zane later, the operative gave a sad shake of his head and a quiet “not now, boyo.”

So things hadn’t been easy for _anyone_ in the last few years. Good to know. But it didn’t alleviate the rest of his unease.

For the longest time during his years spent stuck at the Handsome Jackpot, all Timothy worried about was survival and escape. All of his energy, every fibre of his being was wholly dedicated to this, but as time went on, another issue slowly arose in the distant space at the back of his mind. About what came after. How to carry on. Being a body double was all he knew. So if he _had_ managed to escape…what would he do?

And now that the moment had arrived, he realized he had never fully dealt with the question. But thanks to Rhys and Zane both, he had to admit he was faring better than he ever would have expected. After all, Pretty Boy had just been the start. The galaxy was likely full of opportunists looking to get their hands on someone that looked and spoke exactly like Jack.

Someone would find him. Eventually.

So maybe Rhys’ offer would be his chance. He _wanted_ to accept, in spite of the lingering reluctance to sign back on to another massive corporate entity. All he wanted at this point was a home — something resembling safety. _Freedom._

Was that what Atlas promised?

Timothy sighed, again pressing his forehead against the glass. Only time would tell. And he was more than a little nervous to find out what awaited him on the other side.

* * *

  
  
In the following days, Timothy did not see much of Rhys. He wondered if he had been avoiding him, but he was the CEO after all, and Tim had not forgotten what that kind of schedule looked like. He’d allowed Zane and Timothy access to the executive suite, and even his office, which was a level of trust that completely took the doppelgänger by surprise. But with every brief exchange, every time Rhys offered his excuses and disappeared on some unnamed task, he couldn’t help but wonder.

Zane was content to wait. Given the events at the Jackpot, he couldn’t blame him for simply wanting to rest for a time, and only smiled when the operative had immediately strode into the spacious office and sunk into a sofa next to the tall aquarium wall. Timothy, however, felt his hands twitch with boredom, and soon discovered a door to the balcony outside. He’d paused to explain his motivations to Zane, but the man had already dozed off, so he quietly slipped outside.

The view that the executive balcony offered was stellar. The Meridian Metroplex was a vast, sprawling city that did not fail to amaze Timothy with how far it had come since Promethea’s previous decline. Timothy situated himself at the railing, losing himself in the endless sights that the city offered, allowing himself to fall into a lull that was markedly calming. As long as he was allowed, he was happy to remain there at the edge of the world, breathing in the fresh, crisp air.

After some time, the sun had begun to set, and an even more beautiful version of the city appeared. The impressively tall buildings sparkled with neon, backlit by a night sky that had slipped into the brilliant colours of the galaxy, a speckled void dabbed with reds, purples, and blues of an aurora clashing with the planet’s atmosphere.

Timothy had seen his share of wondrous sights. Before the Jackpot, his work had taken him far beyond what he’d ever hoped to see. But there was something about the complex simplicity of the night sky that would always steal his breath away. And Promethea offered that in spades.

Okay. So maybe he _could_ come to like it here.

“Enjoying the evening?”

Timothy flinched away from the railing at Rhys’ approach. He shrugged, rubbed at his neck, avoided eye contact, and generally made a fool of himself despite the casual demeanour of the Atlas CEO arriving at his side. Rhys did not notice, or was polite enough not to bring attention to his behaviour, folding his arms against the railing to peek over the edge.

“Yes, I—” _Take a breath._ “Just…getting some fresh air.”

Rhys’ eyebrows drifted up upon gazing in Timothy’s direction. “You’ve been out here for hours.”

Timothy quietly skirted around the idea that Rhys had been paying attention to his absence, turning instead to stare out across the cityscape. He wavered, closed his eyes, and drew in a long, stinging breath.

“You’d be surprised how wonderful real air can feel after living in a tin can,” Timothy shrugged, swallowing hard at his admission.

“…no.”

He winced yet again at the softness of Rhys’ voice, and caught the other man seemingly adrift in some far away place. It was difficult to place his expression, but if they were as alike as Timothy imagined, it was something between wistful nostalgia and clinging regret. “I lived on Helios for a few years, if you’ll recall.”

“Oh…” Timothy straightened. “…yeah. Sorry.”

Rhys hinted at a smile, but it passed quickly.

“Have you considered my offer?”

Timothy balked. He traced random shapes into the railing with his fingertip, wishing the moment hadn’t arrived so soon. A paltry few days were not enough to comprehend the full weight of what Rhys was willing to provide. Or _why_ he had been willing to provide such a generous offer. He _was_ formerly Hyperion, wasn’t he?

“I’m not sure you’ve thought this through,” Timothy muttered. “I’m a liability, in more ways than one.”

Rhys tilted his head, scanning the air in thought. “Maybe. But no more than most of the people in my employ.”

“Most of the people in your employ aren’t Handsome Jack doubles.”

The suggestion came out sounding bitter; Timothy pressed a hand to his face in immediate disgust. Rhys again went quiet, but his expression did not reflect the sting of Timothy’s words. He almost seemed _accustomed_ to this kind of conversation, like he harangued broken people into his inner circle on a regular basis.

“You want to run,” Rhys uttered. “I understand.”

His words were convincing. But something yet held Timothy in place, held him at a distance.

“And I wouldn’t blame you,” he continued. “But I want you to know I didn’t make that offer lightly. I know what you can do, and I wanted to give you a chance.”

“But why?” Timothy snapped, feeling a fresh unease clawing its way to the surface. “You have no reason to trust me. If anything, I’m a risk. I’m dangerous. I mean, look at my goddamn _face,_ kiddo—”

He bit down painfully on his tongue, but the word still managed to slip free. At last, Rhys physically reacted, noticeably stiffening. His hands tightly gripped the railing where they rested, and he did not meet his gaze. Timothy sighed, rubbing his hands down his face.

“I’m sorry, Rhys. I just…”

“I’m not going to pretend to know what seven years in that place was like,” Rhys interrupted. “But I _do_ know Jack. And I know the kind of trauma he leaves behind.”

Timothy softened. He sighed, kneading his knuckles into the bridge of his nose.

“Rhys—”

“If you want to leave, you are free to leave,” he went on. Timothy turned, eyes wide upon catching Rhys’ direct, heavy stare. “You can run around the galaxies, looking for a sense of purpose. For a way to hide from yourself, and from Jack. But you and I both know how impossible that feat is, regardless of what your face looks like.”

Timothy clutched at his jacket, faltering back a step. Rhys moved forward with him, gripping onto the material rucked up around his elbow. They were suddenly very close, and Timothy felt heat radiating from his ears.

“Or,” Rhys hummed, eyebrows furrowed. “You can make a home here, and build something in _spite_ of Jack.”

To live in spite of Handsome Jack. It was a feverish, delirious dream that Timothy had desperately clung to for all these years. An offer that was all too tempting, too mouth watering to deny. And it was being offered to him from another one of Jack’s victims, who was carefully holding onto him now with a matching cybernetic hand. Timothy lowered his gaze to where they held one another, eyes drifting from the silver, floral vignette on Rhys’ red arm to his own, brand new hand. As he stared, his gunmetal-black fingers seemed to twitch against Rhys’ tattooed forearm.

“…okay,” he choked. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.”

Rhys smiled. And it was so _genuine_ it almost hurt _._

“Good. I’m glad.”

* * *

  
  
At last, the end of another tumultuous day at Atlas. Enough time had passed following the Maliwan / COV invasion that Promethea had lapsed back into some semblance of its previous self, some peaceful state, but the chaos yet carried on in Rhys’ world. Between recovery efforts, surprise ratch infestations, and organizing a number of under the table tasks for Zane and Zer0, he’d found little time for rest, and no energy to stop and really weigh the consequences of what he’d done.

Or maybe he simply hoped to ignore it, that there would be no fallout from his actions. That sounded more like him.

Rhys arrived in his penthouse sometime around 2AM, having lost track of time while working alone in his office. He had picked up the bad habit of falling asleep at his desk recently, something he assumed was typical for most people in positions such as his, but he was determined to break the pattern. Especially after the incident where he was forced to attend an early board meeting wearing the same clothes he’d had on from the day prior. That, and the surface of his desk wasn’t exactly the most comfortable place to wake up and find a puddle of drool against one’s cheek.

So, yeah. His own bed was pretty inviting. But as he strode in past his little-used kitchen, setting down his various pass cards and kicking off his shoes, the remnant anxiety that had lingered just below the surface began to rear its head. He staved it off by reaching for a holo-tablet discarded on the counter, and proceeded briefly into his office to confirm his final requests for the night had successfully been sent. The room was dark, but he seamlessly navigated to the desk, pausing only to scan the data lit up at his fingertips.

“You’re home late.”

Rhys almost dropped the tablet in his hands. It barely made it onto the nearest surface, where he paused, head angled downward and eyes squeezed shut as he scrutinized every word that had been uttered. But after a brief calculation, he realized there was no malice in any of them. Which was — reassuring? Perhaps?

“Yes…” he tried, brushing fingers over the surface of the desk. “I had to tend to some business. Thank you for your patience.”

No apologies. He’d already given them. And that wasn’t what this was about.

“I have endless patience now.”

Well, _that_ sounded bitter. Rhys sighed, turning to press his ass against the desk before he folded his arms over his chest. It was difficult to lift his head, but at last he managed it, enough to catch Jack scanning his face with some unreadable scrutiny. Unreadable, but scrutiny nonetheless.

“So…”

He hated how frayed his voice sounded. Jack said nothing, only continuing to stare. His frame flickered, a result of the inadequate projecting device that Rhys had haphazardly thrown together. The tech was limited, cut off from network access, but Jack didn’t complain. In fact, he hadn’t complained at _all,_ something that had Rhys constantly on guard, even when he was in an entirely separate building. He’d felt Jack’s phantom breath ghosting down his neck all day, from the very moment he’d plugged in his crusty old ECHO-Eye, despite never having felt such a thing before. It was all very—

“You look good, kitten.”

Rhys’ heart clawed its way into his throat at the same time his stomach turned over. The resulting physical response was a tic, just beside his false eye, fairly subtle but noticeable enough that Jack would have seen. He exhaled softly through his nostrils, lowering his gaze to the floor as he mulled any feasible response. The seconds dragged out, but true to his word, Jack only waited. At last, Rhys relented.

“I have regrets,” he started. “That much is clear. But I have to admit I’m not sure why I took this risk. This very, _very_ stupid risk.”

Jack’s expression flickered imperceptibly, yet leaving Rhys on edge. It was infuriating in its own way — why wasn’t he _yelling?_ Why wasn’t he furious, or wrathful, like Handsome-goddamn-Jack _should_ be after having been locked away for so long? Rhys almost would have felt better if Jack had come at him with arms extended, going for his throat (much like the _first_ time they’d met). But when he’d first drifted into view, and Rhys had been left speechless in quiet awe and fear and an all consuming feeling of _finally,_ Jack had only stared in silence, before giving a soft nod and uttering a greeting of “Rhysie.”

His voice had almost come out in a strained croak, but Rhys couldn’t be sure if that was a result of having been isolated for so long or…

Well, something else.

“It _was_ stupid,” Jack admitted, and his voice was resolute now. Rhys almost shivered at the familiar timbre, unable to deny how he’d _always_ been affected by the sound, but also ever wary of the undertone of threats that Jack had mastered long ago. “But thank you. For being stupid.”

Rhys couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. 

“My pleasure.”

Internally, he chided himself for the poor choice of words. Conversation with Jack would always be a high stakes game, in which he had to carefully guard his cards. And while it _had_ been a pleasure, the most tension and emotion he’d experienced in a single collective surge of all the cells in his body in years (with the exception of meeting the body double a few days prior), he wouldn’t admit that to Jack. There was still no way to know who it was who stood before him now.

“You did good here, Rhysie.”

Rhys tilted his head in question. Jack hadn’t gestured to anything in particular, continuing to stare directly back at Rhys. It was difficult to fathom Jack complimenting him on _Atlas,_ given that Rhys had stolen the deed from the very much destroyed husk of his office, but he also doubted Jack was so arrogant as to be referring to the action of having brought him back.

Although, Jack _was_ pretty arrogant…

But then Jack’s eyes flickered down, and Rhys lowered his gaze to notice the branded belt buckle between his hips. Ah, so a compliment after all.

“It took time. Hard work.” _Ancient alien tech._ “But I was determined.”

“I see that.”

“I mean... there _had_ to be a reason I broke it all down…”

Rhys hadn’t lifted his head again, turning his mournful stare instead to the tiled floor beneath Jack’s feet. He watched as Jack shifted between them, quietly absorbing the admission of guilt, but only silence pervaded the looming space of his penthouse.

And here he was, willingly offering up one of his cards so early, blatantly exposing his neck. For the seconds that ticked away following the utterance, he felt the muscles begin to stiffen in his neck, growing tight with the tension of Jack’s inaction.

By some undeserved miracle, he did not flinch when Jack began his approach. He remained still where he sat against his desk, and when the flicker of blue light filled his senses, he lifted his head at last, scanning the yet blank expression with which Jack regarded him. It was only when Jack lifted his hand to his throat that he hazarded a minor wince, as if he could feel the crackle of energy over his skin. But there were no ill intentions in the larger man’s actions, as he merely ghosted the pad of his thumb over Rhys’ exposed tattoo, tracing its circular shape.

Rhys involuntarily shivered at his lack of touch. Years had passed. He’d grown, matured, become the man he’d always hoped to be. But he still buckled under the intensity that was _Handsome Jack._ His hero, his villain, his world. And even the simplest gesture of appreciation at Jack’s whim was enough to set his skin on fire.

“Jack,” he whimpered, eyes fluttering shut. “I—”

“Sh,” Jack hummed. “Don’t.”

His hand drew up to Rhys’ face. Hovered over his cheek, as if palming its shape. Rhys almost leaned into it, but somehow restrained himself, kept a somewhat sound mind in which he fully realized that he could not, in fact, feel Jack’s touch. As much as he wanted to. Instead, he opened his eyes, and again set to the impossible task of trying to read his expression.

Jack’s gaze trailed across Rhys’ face, as if committing every new detail to memory. There was something strained there — an unspoken struggle. And briefly, he wondered at Jack’s regrets. Was he struggling with his defeat? Had he yet to fully regain himself following the years of imprisonment? What did he—

“I want to feel, Rhysie,” he murmured suddenly, meeting Rhys’ direct stare. “I want to be able to _touch_ something.”

Jack’s thumb slicked past his lower lip; Rhys swallowed hard at the lump that had formed in his throat.

“…yeah,” Rhys agreed, adrift in his own ethereal world. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jack nodded gently, resuming his careful scan of Rhys’ face. Then finally, for barely a second but just long enough for Rhys to notice, his expression twitched with some telltale emotion. Rhys latched onto it immediately, lowering his head in a dejected sigh.

“…I should shave it off, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure -- I have not finished this fic. It was meant to remain a one-shot, and I haven't planned out the story so I don't actually know where it's going. It's going to update slowly and sporadically, if at all. It has become a place to where I can escape when my other stories are getting stale, which means there's no ending in mind.
> 
> But damn, I just couldn't leave Jack like that.
> 
> Also, I couldn't help but think of [this tumblr post](https://spoks-illogical-art.tumblr.com/post/189890486265/blueskysovereign-ep22san-i-am-here-to-deliver) while writing this.


	3. Trial Run

“I think you have a problem, Zane.”

“Hey. When you’ve been workin’ long as I have, you collect a gun or two.”

Timothy scrolled through the interface to Zane’s personal vault, eyebrows high as the rows of weapons rolled past. Half of him wanted to press, to ridicule Zane for what was clearly a hoarding obsession, but the other was struck with envy.

“How many of these did you purchase,” he turned with a smirk. “And how many did you loot?”

“I’m doin’ you a favour here, boyo. What’s with the third degree?” Zane paused, lowering his tools away from the drone beneath his hands to spare a brief look over his shoulder. “…and I don’t pay for guns. I take them.”

“Hah.”

Timothy continued through the collection, selecting a number of uncomplicated weapons that seamlessly transitioned to his inventory. It was difficult to be conservative with his choices, given the odd range of guns Zane had gathered. They all seemed to be fairly rare releases, ones that fired _saw blades_ or shot bullets out the _sides_ of the barrel. Timothy had a hard time separating any of them from their owner, even if they mostly went unused and had been stored away for quite a while, but he supposed their legendary status was the only reason Zane even held onto them versus dumping them into the closest vending machine.

“Anything to avoid?”

“Nah.” Zane turned the drone over to inspect the dented panelling. “If I were attached to it, it’d be attached to me.”

“Fair enough,” Timothy sighed. “I guess it would help to know what I was doing. Any idea what I should expect?”

“Not a clue. Everythin’ I did for Atlas was during the Maliwan invasion, but I think that mess has been cleaned up.”

“What about Zero?”

“Not sure his work keeps him on Promethea. Runs covert ops and the like. Even Rhys doesn’t seem to know where he is half the time.”

“What?” Timothy snorted. “He _works_ for Rhys, doesn’t he?”

“Yup.”

Helpful. Rolling his eyes, Timothy returned to his selection, moving on to the SMGs. After a few minutes spent enduring the tedious task of comparing stats, he paused, squinting in disbelief at a particular entry name. Although a series of intense emotions washed over him (amusement, nausea, foreboding caution), against his better judgement, and because it was just _so easy_ with the device’s interface, he slipped the gun into his inventory. _Just to check it out, that’s all_.

Timothy was loath to admit anything Jack had ever put his stupid, oversized hands on could be impressive, but he’d always had a soft spot for Hyperion weaponry, and as he summoned it forward into his grip, it immediately felt _familiar._ The SMG was similar to the older models he once handled, but was lightweight, had a sharper look, and even a corrosive elemental add-on that he—

_“You have a great taste in guns, kiddo; I’ll give you that.”_

Zane immediately stiffened where he sat at the table. A ripple of shock raced through Timothy’s forearms, compelling him to throw the gun, discard it, _get it as far away from him as possible._ And the gun very nearly almost left his hands, but he held fast, taking a shaky breath while staring down at the aptly named _Handsome Jackhammer_.

“…Zane…” he hissed. “What. The. _Fuck.”_

“Boyo.” Zane was suddenly on his feet, moving forward into Timothy’s space. “Sorry, forgot it was in there. I—”

“Why is _Jack_ in your gun?” Timothy forced it into Zane’s grip. “Is it—”

“Recordings,” Zane quickly explained. “Was an homage after he bit it, ah guess. Got it as an unwanted gift, put it away as soon as that feckin’ arse started barkin’ at me.”

“A _gift,”_ Timothy shivered in disgust. “Who the hell would send you that as a gift?”

“Ridiculous, right?” Zane nodded. He turned back to the vault, replacing the gun with another Hyperion SMG presumably bereft of Jack’s voice. “Try the Crossroad instead. Has a nice incendiary effect.”

Timothy did not fail to notice Zane had seemingly dodged his question, but considered perhaps it was best to set aside. Zane was, after all, a retired corporate assassin — he no doubt crossed Hyperion’s path a number of times, and likely had a few remaining allies under the much despised umbrella. But it was yet another reminder that Timothy’s shaky friendships were with _strangers,_ something that left his stomach feeling hollow.

“Thanks,” he murmured, hefting the new SMG against his shoulder. He checked the sights, tested the weight, and passed it over the digistruct device at his hip, satisfied with the replacement. The whole time, Zane remained at his side, flexing his hands in some nervous tic.

“Sorry,” he repeated with a wince. “I didn’t—”

“Forget it.” Timothy slipped past the operative, crossing the room for some space. “S’not like I didn’t hear my share of Jack’s voice at the casino. I’m just not eager to keep him with me more than I already have to.”

He was fully aware he _sounded_ like Jack, but there was something about a secondary voice that always sent shivers down his spine until he identified the source. Zane remained silent as Timothy sank into the bunk, chewing over his response in thought, and Timothy immediately regretted his decision to take the gun from the vault, not simply because of Jack’s idiotic voice ringing in his ears, but due to the irritating _pity_ exuding from Zane following the exchange. The last thing he needed was—

“Well,” Zane huffed. “We can ask Atlas to make a gun with _my_ voice if yeh want. Then you can carry _these_ dulcet tones with yeh wherever you go.”

Timothy blinked once, twice, before bursting into laughter. Okay, so maybe it _wasn’t_ pity. Zane was a good friend, after all.

He was starting to realize he would have to be more careful about jumping to conclusions so often. Zane had seemed to understand him right from the start, merely staring at him in quiet surprise the first time he’d stepped out from his shelter at the casino. And even Rhys was welcoming, following the initial tense exchange of course. Timothy still had yet to decipher the looks that he had wrongfully assumed to be pitying or withering glances from the Atlas CEO, although there was some quiet hope for he truly intended. Or something.

“…can I ask you something, Zane?” Timothy hummed, kneading his hands together. “About Atlas.”

“Atlas, or _Atlas?”_

Again, he just _got_ it.

“Rhys,” Timothy confirmed. “Is he… Does he have family? What’s his story?”

“Not sure about family. Has a friend on Pandora, and then there’s Zer0 and Lorelei. Haven’t met anyone other than that.” Zane drifted back to his workbench, sparing a quick glance in his direction. “He’s _painfully_ single, if that’s yer real question.”

A flush of red rushed into Timothy’s cheeks.

“N-no,” he stuttered. “I was just—”

“Actually,” Zane frowned. “He had a picture of a pretty young thing on his desk, but I noticed it disappeared recently.”

“Oh?” _Sounding too hopeful. Reel it in._

“Yeah. ‘bout when you showed up, actually.”

Timothy buried his face in his hands.

“Zane.”

“Timothy.”

“Shut up.”

Zane sniggered, shoulders bobbing in spiteful glee. With a roll of his eyes, Timothy let the moment pass, because he wasn’t interested in Rhys, not like that, _definitely not._ But he couldn’t help feeling just a little bit thankful when his ECHO chirped against his hip interrupting the moment.

Then he lifted the device, giving it a frown.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“Uh,” he swallowed. “It’s from Rhys. Asked me to head to Meridian if I’m available.”

“Well then,” Zane smirked. “Good luck on yer date, then.”

* * *

The Neon Arterial was an impressive bypass highway that connected the various sections of the sprawling city of Meridian, providing breathing space between the districts while also drastically cutting down travel time. Or at least, that was its formerly intended function, but the road had been sectioned off following the Maliwan attack some time before Timothy’s arrival. Reconstruction efforts had been underway since then, and much of this section of city was back to its normal self, but a destroyed portion of the wall yet remained, exposing the spillway just beyond. This was where Timothy’s cyclone came to rest, its thick tire halted amongst gravel and rubble just before the cracked wall.

He checked and rechecked his ping location, gazing about in confusion. Rhys was nowhere to be seen, and the place almost appeared abandoned.

So why was he supposed to be here?

“Timothy Lawrence.”

The monotone, emotionless voice sent ice rocketing through his veins. Timothy recognized it instantly, and while he had reassurances that Zer0 was not a threat, it would be a long time before he could set aside his previous conditioning. The vault hunter stood at the edge of the roadway, cloak dissipating with a shimmer.

“I need you to come with me,” he hummed. “It is time to work.”

“Right.” That made sense. “Lead the way.”

Timothy followed Zer0 to the crack in the wall, slipping down past the edge to the spillway below. When his feet touched down on damp soil, he paused briefly to touch a hand to his red helmet, confirming the Atlas armour was securely in place.

“You will not need it,” Zer0 droned, barely looking over his shoulder. “No one will see us out here. / No one who will care.”

Bristling, he briefly considered.

“What _are_ we doing out here?” Timothy asked, ignoring the quietly simmering concern in the back of his mind.

He dutifully followed Zer0 across the open ground, gaze trained on the vault hunter’s back, but Zer0 remained silent, and Timothy nearly vibrated with unease. The squish of soft ground underfoot wasn’t the only thing keeping him off balance. Soon enough, however, they arrived at a downed pillar, some debris remaining from the invasion, and beside it, a weapons crate. This is where Zer0 turned to face him, headed tilted in some imperceptible look.

“Pest control.”

Timothy sank back a step at the lack of haiku, and the not so subtle threat. His jaw tightened; he considered the digistruct device at his hip. He could summon a weapon to hand fairly quickly, but he had also noticed the sword handle peeking out between Zer0’s shoulders. The lithe vault hunter could cut him in half before Timothy could even flinch with intention.

So instead, he slowly raised his palms.

“Listen, Zer0—”

The vault hunter, seemingly pleased with his reaction, turned his back on Timothy. He crouched long enough to click open the latches of the weapons crate, lifting the lid to reveal three Atlas brand assault rifles delicately stored inside. Timothy blinked in surprise and wonderful relief, mutely watching as Zer0 began to set the rifles up across the downed pillar.

“I did not mean you, / though I fully understand / your hesitation.”

A slow, calming breath slipped past Timothy’s lips. He shook off the tension, despite his heart yet beating hard against his ribcage. Zer0 straightened, gesturing across the spillway to the wall far beyond. A large crack spidered its way across its surface, revealing a series of tunnels meant to be concealed beneath. The concrete around the entrance appeared to be eroded, eaten away by some unknown substance, but the various strands of yellow organic material holding the stone together was a telltale sign of infestation.

“Ah,” Timothy breathed. “So. Actual pest control, then.”

“Another ratch nest,” Zer0 nodded. “An ally has gone inside. / They will flush them out.”

Timothy at last understood, moving to where the rifles had been placed out. He carefully set his knee to the gravel, avoiding the muck, and leaned forward to lift the butt of the gun into his shoulder. Nimbly slipping his fingers into place, he set his sights upon the distant crack.

“How far?”

“Roughly ninety yards. / Take care with the flying ones. / And don’t shoot the skag.”

A snort of laughter clipped through Timothy’s helmet, but when he raised his head to glimpse the vault hunter in disbelief, Zer0 merely stared straight back at him, stock still.

“Oh. Okay. Not shooting the skag, then.”

“We ready?”

Much to Timothy’s surprise, Rhys appeared at his elbow, taking up the last position against the downed pillar. The young executive kneeled beside him, crouching down against the ground, seemingly unfazed to be pressing his likely expensive slacks into the dirt. Timothy tried not to stare too long, but as Rhys settled into place, ducking forward to peer down the rifle’s sights, something fluttered in his stomach.

Timothy reconsidered, set down his weapon, and pulled his helmet off, resting it next to his elbow before again hefting up the gun. Zer0 moved to his left.

“We are good to go. / Flak and Mister Chew are set. / Just say the word, bro.”

Fl4k and Mr. Chew? Bro? What was even _happening?_ And why was it so _adorably_ _dorky?_

“Okay,” Rhys acknowledged, settling into some peaceful place with his gun. “Word, bro.”

Zer0 gave the signal, tapping at his ECHO. For a minute or so, nothing happened, but then a series of cries erupted from the darkness in the distance. Multiple quadrupedal creatures emerged from the crevice, crawling out on their bellies. Timothy spied them through his scope, grimacing at the up-close view. The seemingly blind ratch almost appeared to be rat like, but for the hardened carapace and spiky growths. He took careful aim, set his finger against the trigger, and took a breath.

The ratch under his scope exploded; blood and gore painted the wall behind it. Timothy flinched in surprise at the _crack_ in his ear, blinking a few times to confirm the creature had been wiped off the face of Promethea.

“One,” Rhys casually uttered to his right. Timothy turned to watch the Atlas CEO as he lined up another shot, feeling a flush of heat under his collar upon noticing that Rhys appeared to be enjoying himself. “C’mon, Timothy. Keep up, now.”

Oh. So that was how it was going to be, huh?

Timothy returned to his assault rifle, smirking as he quickly took sight of the ratch in the distance. Fresh energy thrummed through his fingers; he squeezed at the trigger, taking shots at three of the creatures in rapid succession. Their shells and heads popped apart, further painting the area with their blood.

“Three,” he replied.

Rhys chuckled, firing off a few rounds of his own. “Five.”

Luckily for Timothy, there seemed to be no end of the ratch. The insectoid pests poured out of the hole, compelled to escape by some unseen threat just inside. But as they fled and fell and bled, he noticed that the odd few paused to turn on their downed allies, feasting upon their corpses.

“They’re opportunistic cannibals. Gotta get them before they heal,” Rhys explained, picking off the ratch in question. “Oh, and — eight.”

Timothy lined up more shots, promising to himself that he would not playfully nudge at the CEO at his side. “Ten.”

Rhys stuttered. He leaned farther into his gun, determined not to be left behind, but the creatures in the distance quickly upped their game. The newest ones to emerge were winged, as Zer0 had mentioned, taking flight upon escaping their hideout. It posed a new challenge, one that did not concern Timothy, but would Rhys—

He heard a quiet _click,_ Rhys’ hand having slipped to a setting alongside the rifle. The next shot behaved oddly, leaving a bright path as it whizzed through the air. It shouldn’t have hit the ratch, but veered toward it at the last second, homing in on its bulk. Timothy spied Rhys in the corner of his eye, seeing a shark-like grin plastered over the executive’s face. The follow-up shot went straight through the creature. Its skull exploded, denying the ratch its final cry, and it fell lifeless to the ground. Timothy blinked, especially disappointed when he realized that Rhys had nabbed the final kill.

“Shit. Nice shot.”

“Nah. Tracking dart. I cheated.”

Timothy sank back on his haunches.

“Nice tech then,” he hummed. “But yeah, you did cheat.”

“I got about fourteen before that. They count,” Rhys frowned.

“A nice effort,” Timothy agreed. He quietly broke his own rule, reaching over to pat Rhys on the shoulder, and the brush of Rhys’ shirt felt wonderful against his cybernetic fingers. “But I got fifteen.”

The Atlas CEO gazed out over the spillway, lowering the assault rifle in disbelief.

“…damn.”

“I got twenty four.”

Timothy and Rhys turned simultaneously toward Zer0, who had risen to his feet and was casually dusting off his armour.

“I will pay the vault hunter. / If you’ll excuse me.”

He rounded the barrier and headed off toward the pile of dead ratch at the far end of the spillway. Timothy whistled his amazement, absently scratching at the clasp on his chin.

“So. He’s as good as they say.”

“Better,” Rhys sighed. “I think he holds back for me. He could easily put me to worse shame. But it’s good practice.”

Timothy rounded a look of surprise on the cybernetic man. “You do this often, then?”

Rhys spared him a smirk, shrugging as he climbed up and did what he could to brush the dampness out of his knees.

“They’ve always been a big problem. Went ignored for a bit when the COV came to town. Now it’s just a matter of chasing them out of their holes.”

“Huh.”

Zer0 had reached the crack in the wall. Moments later, an impressive looking skag climbed out, passing the vault hunter with little concern, and a figure appeared after it, a parka hood concealing their face.

“Flak,” Rhys answered his unasked question, watching the exchange. “Another vault hunter. They were part of the crew that helped with the invasion. Works with Zane, mostly, but they drop by to assist Zer0 with the odd job, specifically if a hunt is involved.”

“Flak is a strange name.”

“Flak is a robot,” Rhys explained. “Beastmaster, vault hunter, general badass. Stay out of their way, basically.”

“Understood,” Timothy nodded. “Man, you weren’t kidding. You really do collect some bizarre friends.”

Rhys laughed. Timothy went stock still as fingers slipped over his shoulder, giving an affectionate squeeze.

“What can I say?” he shrugged. “I only work with the best.”

Rhys moved back toward the pillar, and Timothy mourned the loss of his touch. He watched as the Atlas CEO set to unloading the rifles, returning them to their crate.

“Glad you showed up. I wasn’t sure you were still confident in your choice.”

Exhaling softly, Timothy gently bit at his lip. “I wasn’t, to be honest. But it was only fair I gave it a chance.”

“And?” Rhys lifted his head, and his eyes almost sparkled under the neon lights high above. “What are your first impressions?”

Timothy hesitated in response, quietly scanning Rhys’ bright expression. He felt the bob of his own Adam’s apple.

“I’m… intrigued.”

Rhys’ smile widened. “Glad I could be intriguing.”

Heat crawled up his neck. Timothy almost shivered, desperately turning away to look at anything but Rhys. He heard a quiet chuckle as Rhys returned to his task of putting away the weapons.

“Rhys,” Timothy began, staring hard at nothing overhead. “Been meaning to ask...”

“What’s up?”

Timothy wavered. He wasn’t sure _why_ the question had jumped to mind, but it was too late to backtrack now.

“You shaved. Any particular reason why?”

Rhys stiffened. His fingers slipped along his upper lip, as if realizing for the first time that there was nothing but bare skin. His response was delayed, seemingly adrift somewhere in heavy thought. Timothy wasn’t certain why the inquiry had such an effect, but with the subtle wince that slipped through the cracks, he felt like it had somehow been the wrong thing to ask.

“I, well… It’s simple,” Rhys answered eventually, a strange surrender to some unspoken burden. "We’re not under siege anymore.”

What the heck did _that_ mean? It seemed peculiarly foreboding, when it had no right to be. Timothy returned his gaze to the Atlas CEO, brow pinched as he considered the strange man. Rhys had his own hang ups, that much was certain. And a strange niggling at the back of his head told him to mind his business, just keep a safe distance. At the forefront, though, his intentions were a little more difficult to fathom. His hands twitched where they hung at his sides.

“If it means anything,” he began, despite himself, and doing his best to feign nonchalance. “I liked it. Thought it suited you.”

Timothy gazed toward the pair in the distance, watching the skag happily bounding around their feet. Zer0 and Fl4k were working their way through the remains, lifting various loot off the corpses in true vault hunter fashion. With a smirk, Timothy glanced back to see if Rhys had noticed, but by the way he was staring hard back at Timothy, there was no way he could have seen anything else.

The lump in Timothy’s throat grew thicker.

“Everything okay?” he asked, unsure of how to break the tension that he hadn’t realized had grown between them. Rhys’ eyes carefully traced his face, a gesture that normally turned Timothy’s stomach upside down, but with Rhys, there was another level of complication with the action, a nagging feeling of “who do you see?”

“Would you like me to fix your mask?”

Well, shit. He hadn’t _meant_ to hope Rhys had other motives, but it certainly would’ve been preferable to _that._ Timothy straightened with quiet indignation.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t— no!” Rhys’ expression filled with horrific understanding. “No, sorry, that’s not what I mean at all. I just—”

“Well?” Timothy snapped. “What _did_ you mean?”

“The cracks,” Rhys flinched. “It can’t be comfortable, right? Must itch like crazy…”

Timothy considered. He darkly scrutinized the other man, wary of the reasons for his interest. It would be an impulse that remained with him long after the name of Handsome Jack eventually drifted into irrelevance (if that day ever actually arrived), but yet again, he found himself tempted to ignore his carefully constructed defences. At least for Rhys.

“It’s annoying,” he admitted with a frown. “Hard to keep clean. But I’m not taking it off, if that’s what you mean.”

As long as he could help it, no one would see what lurked underneath.

Rhys nodded his immediate acceptance of the fact, jumping to explain. “In addition to prosthetics, Atlas has vastly improved on graft technology, mostly for burn or radiation victims. But this has also led to the production of highly advanced polymer meshes.”

“Grafts.” Timothy winced at the word. Rhys seemed to notice.

“Synthetic skin,” he offered. “We can seamlessly apply it to your mask with no damage to the underlying tissue.”

His words swirled about Timothy’s head in a chaotic mess. Timothy’s face had plagued him for a very long time, but he’d never actually considered _fixing_ it. He very occasionally wondered if he had the strength to undergo surgery again, to completely wipe away the damage that Hyperion had done, but he suspected it wasn’t that simple. Not without revealing to the world what he had allowed Jack to do to him after Elpis.

Well, “allowed” was the wrong term. Jack had never needed his permission for _anything,_ not once he’d signed that initial contract.

“Maybe,” Timothy choked. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Rhys smiled gently. “I’m not going to force you into anything. I just want you to know the services are available, should you choose to access them.”

Again, Timothy staggered to a halt. His natural distrust of the Atlas CEO was far from intentional, but after seven years in the Jackpot, the seemingly unending generosity and acceptance was starting to get at him. No one was this nice.

“Why are you doing this, Rhys?”

And with that, the air again grew thick with tension. Rhys frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody goes through this kind of trouble for nothing.” Timothy tried to hold back the hostility in his voice, but something deeper was taking control. Jack was crawling up his throat, working his way to the surface yet again. “What are you going to expect in return?”

“Nothing,” Rhys hissed, clearly offended by the accusation. “This isn’t a favour I’m doing exclusively for you, Timothy. Anyone on my payroll has access to these services. They’re called health benefits, and they’re pretty fucking standard.”

“I…” Timothy considered. Softened. “…that’s…different, I guess.”

“I did the same thing for a commander of mine not that long ago,” Rhys continued, turning his tight glare away from Timothy to stare out across the spillway. “We’re not all in the form that we’re meant to be. I’ve always appreciated that.”

He gestured through the air with his cybernetic arm, and the motion was sharp, punctuated by his irritation. Timothy balked, rubbing guiltily at the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I didn’t mean to assume. I just…”

“Don’t apologize,” Rhys interrupted. He flinched, sighed, and kneaded at the bridge of his nose with metal fingers. “…Tim, you’ve been through a lot. Jack did a fucking number on you, and you’re right to be suspicious towards peoples intentions.”

He turned toward him, squaring off, and rested a hand on Timothy’s shoulder.

“Just…please — If we’re going to work together, I’m going to need you to trust me.”

 _Tim._ His breathing staggered; his heart palpated. _He called me Tim._ Zane often referred to him by the shortened nickname, but it did not have the same effect of setting his skin aflame. 

“…you haven’t asked me to sign anything yet.”

Rhys’ expression flickered to a look of pained confusion.

“What?”

“A contract,” Timothy shivered at the word. “A work agreement.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Did you _want_ one?”

“You don’t _need_ one?”

“I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Rhys…” Timothy ran fingers through his hair in frustration. “How the hell did you make it to this point being so goddamn trusting?”

This almost seemed to amuse Rhys; his mouth twisted with a wry smile.

“I indulge in the odd risk,” he murmured. “I didn’t get this far by playing it safe. Maybe that will be my downfall one day, but something makes me think it won’t be because of you.”

 _I really,_ really, _hope not._ Timothy deftly nodded, daring to reach up and snag Rhys’ arm that yet gripped his shoulder, fingers resting in the crook of his elbow. At last, peace settled between them, and Timothy greedily indulged in it, almost drawing Rhys closer.

“As long as I can trust you,” he breathed, carefully meeting his gaze. “You can trust me.”

* * *

  
  
Rhys lingered in silence at the door to his penthouse. The console at his fingers hummed with life, seeming to anticipate his cybernetic access, but he did nothing to activate his hand. Instead, he stared at the soft glow of the panel, wondering what exactly it was that kept him rooted to the spot.

He wasn’t concerned about slipping inside under the scrutiny of prying eyes. For one, he had the floor completely to himself, and the cameras were fully under his own control — not even security could access their feeds. Secondly, he’d already taken advance precautions, setting up a series of conditionals for the visibility of the projection device in the next room. Jack had free rein to roam around the central living space of his penthouse, but would not be projected within the room unless Rhys was present. And should anyone else come knocking at the door, it would wink out in an instant, limiting his image to Rhys’ ECHO-Eye while simultaneously muting the audio device rigged up on the counter. No one would see him unless Rhys allowed it, so there were no problems there.

And with enough time having passed since he’d returned Jack to his former holographic glory, he was no longer concerned by the man’s presence. Well, not _fully,_ and not for the reasons he once might have expected. No, much to his surprise, it was more that he didn’t want to _disappoint_ Jack, despite having seen nothing to indicate he’d done so thus far.

Barring the moustache, of course.

So that wasn’t it either. Which meant two possibilities remained. Rhys inhaled slowly, gazing down to the smooth, metallic boxes in his hands.

He had checked and rechecked the code, ran a wide gamut of tests, and even hazarded a bare-bones simulation on a private server. He fully understood that it would never feel _ready,_ that he would hesitate when the moment came to boot it up, but there were also a minimum amount of checks he needed to run before he even considered taking it upstairs.

Days of this passed, with Rhys disappearing to his office at every chance to check another possible problem that sprung to mind. But the variables were there, the logic was sound. He’d finally reached a point that it was simply _time,_ but a remnant anxiety yet pinned him in place. His eyes hovered over the two cases he’d neatly packaged, thumbs sliding over their securely locked lids.

However, despite his remnant uneasiness, he felt _good._ The day had gone well, all things considered. And though he was initially wary of joining the vault hunters in the field for Timothy’s first trial job, he was now pleased that he had gone. There were yet a few hurdles that he and the damaged doppelgänger had to overcome, but he no longer felt ill following their exchanges. He was almost encouraged by the other man’s easy going nature, surprised that Timothy would be so understanding after all that he had been through.

He was so unlike—

Rhys winced. He closed his eyes, shaking the thought from his mind. _Now is not the time._ His hand passed over the console, and he moved inside as the door slid out of his way.

Upon striding through the foyer, pausing only to set the cases down onto the kitchen bar, Rhys faltered as his eyes found Jack. The other man lounged casually in the living room, hovering in place, seemingly distracted by some view out the window. It was the first time Jack wasn’t _pacing_ when he walked in, already feeling limited by the spaciousness of Rhys’ penthouse, but there was also something oddly _domestic_ about the scene. Jack looked relaxed, hands folded against his chest, and when he turned his head to gaze in Rhys’ direction, his lips slipped into a charismatic smile.

Rhys’ heart fluttered.

“Evening, Jack.”

“Rhysie.”

“Everything okay?”

Jack’s mask shifted. “Why? Did something happen?”

“No,” Rhys immediately replied, wincing. “Just…”

When he couldn’t come up with a reason for his inquiry, Rhys merely shook his head, turning to the bar.

“I’ve been thinking about your request.”

Any suspicion in Jack’s expression dissipated; he quickly perked up. He got to his feet, like he’d casually pushed out of a chair that didn’t exist, and crossed to where Rhys stood at the bar. His attention fell to the two cases that Rhys had placed across the surface, an eyebrow quirked in question.

“And?” Jack hummed. “I don’t see a smokin’ hot clone body, cupcake.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “And where would I get your DNA, Jack?”

Almost as soon as he asked the question, Rhys almost dropped the case that he had set to opening. He wondered, fleetingly, if Timothy had more than just Jack’s good looks, and the creeping dread that maybe, just maybe, he had made a very big mistake in waking up Jack returned. But somehow, he pushed it aside yet again, busying himself with the present task.

This wasn’t a “separate worlds” scenario — he wasn’t fooling himself. But much like the Rhys from seven years back, he still had the habit of ignoring what was bad for him until it inevitably blew up in his face.

“I imagine there’s still some around,” Jack paused to scratch at his chin, as if reading his thoughts. “Tricky to get, but doable. If you let me have network access, I could—”

Rhys met his gaze, expression tight with annoyance.

“Not happening, Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack raised his palms in acquiescence. “I get it. Gotta earn that trust.”

“Right…” Rhys halted his work, caught for another moment in the chaos of his decisions. Over the past few days, he’d asked himself numerous times what the end game was — where he intended to take this little experiment that was Jack. But given that he couldn’t fully recall his reasons for plugging the ECHO-Eye into the projector in the first place, he doubted he’d resolve the issue any time soon. He hoped that the answer would arise on its own, that it would miraculously and perfectly slot into the rest of his life, but he had firm doubts. Doubts based in the reality of his past with Jack.

“What about something synthetic?” Jack asked suddenly. “Listen — I know the whole robotic endoskeleton is a, uh, _touchy subject_ here…”

Apparently, Jack hadn’t received his fill of withering looks for the day. Rhys was fairly certain a vein was starting to throb in his forehead.

“But it has been seven years. The tech must have advanced right? Or are bots with artificial intelligence still looking like tin cans?”

“Realistic synths are still a moral grey area,” Rhys explained, ignoring the impulse to switch off Jack’s audio settings until he had finished his work. “AI, prosthetics, and neural enhancements are generally accepted, and are an area of expertise within Atlas, but I’m not sure I can switch department interests without solid reasoning. Y’know, other than _Jack asked it of me.”_

“Why do you _need_ a reason, Rhysie?” Jack grumbled, following his gestures with subdued interest. “You’re the goddamn CEO, aren’t you? Everything should happen at your instruction.”

“We, uh…” Rhys blanched. “We don’t really operate like that here, Jack. Atlas doesn’t cross those lines. We’re more of what you’d call _family friendly._ You know, despite primarily manufacturing weapons…”

“Wow. Boring.”

Rhys snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t fret. I’ve got something to tide you over for a bit. It’s just a first attempt — a trial run, really — so don’t expect anything too phenomenal.”

“Well, this is _Atlas,_ after all.”

Jack was grinning when Rhys shot him yet another look. “…you’re a dick, Jack.”

“Yup. And you love it.”

Rhys turned to the first case on the table. From inside, he retrieved a series of small cameras that he proceeded to disperse around the room, reaching high against the walls to stick them into place. Jack watched him in silence, face twisted in bemusement, but Rhys could almost feel the burning curiosity emanating from the hologram.

When Rhys returned to the counter, he retrieved the final item from the case — a simple data drive — and leaned over the surface to take hold of Jack’s projection device. A soft choking sound from Jack caught his attention, and he gazed back to catch a flicker of what seemed like concern in the other man’s normally confident demeanour.

“It’s like augmented reality,” Rhys offered, nodding to the sensors. “The trackers will pick up on surfaces that you come into contact with, and provide details to your system that will translate into the general equivalent of haptic feedback. You’ll also be able to distinguish various textures and different temperature levels, even if it’s more or less your mind being fooled into perceiving sensation.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he spoke, but he said nothing, so Rhys continued.

“I modelled it after our latest prosthetic lines. It took some reworking to get it to properly mesh with artificial synapses, but I think—”

“It’s untested?”

Again — uncertainty. So unlike Jack. Rhys wavered, brow furrowed in the hologram’s direction.

“…partially. In this case, yes.”

Jack drummed his fingers on the counter. Attempted to, anyway. In fact, the lack of contact with the surface seemed to annoy him; he tucked his hands against his flanks in dissatisfaction.

“Jack?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Rhysie. I’m in. I just…” He met his gaze, held it. “I was in the dark a long time.”

Rhys ignored the pulse of remorse to let Jack’s message wash over him: don’t screw this up. Truth be told, he was nervous, too, hence his hesitation to enter the suite. He normally had massive testing servers dedicated to proofing prototype work, and an entire QA department to groom what the bots might miss. Nothing was ever deployed without careful scrutiny.

And nothing had ever been this important before. He also preferred having a backup on hand, but risking a copy of Jack’s code was problematic for a whole slew of reasons. Having one version of him was troubling enough — multiples meant more potential that he could fall into the wrong hands.

Not that he was in the right hands _currently…_

“Okay,” Jack breathed. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

With a nod, Rhys leaned over to slip the data drive into place. It immediately began to glow, and Jack’s image briefly stuttered. Rhys’ heart leapt into his throat, but he schooled his reaction, monitoring the update’s progress with his ECHO-Eye.

After a few minutes of tense silence, the drive went dark. He ejected it, gazing to Jack in anticipation. When nothing happened, the hologram frowned, then flinched when a prompt suddenly appeared in the air before his face. A simple dialogue window requesting access hung before him, and Jack visibly stiffened. His gaze shifted uneasily from the window to Rhys, then back again. He reached up and tapped his answer.

Again, a flicker. Jack straightened; his arms lowered to his sides. He drew in a sharp inhale, eyes edging wide momentarily before fluttering shut. Then his head tipped back, and he remained in place for some time, simply _breathing._ Rhys watched in a cautious stupor, when things at last clicked.

 _You’d be surprised how wonderful real air can feel._ Jack was not, in fact, feeling _real_ air, but he was now registering the expansion of his lungs, the perceived flow of sensation through his nostrils.

A blush crossed Rhys’ cheeks. He’d seen sides of Jack that no one else had — some that he wished he could forget. But this…this was new. Jack was almost reverent, slipping into heady ecstasy that forced a quiet moan to pass his lips. Upon hearing the utterance, Rhys immediately turned away, an effort to give Jack his space while _desperately distracting himself,_ and proceeded to open the second case. He placed a second data drive onto the counter, pausing with his fingers resting against its cool exterior. After mustering an ounce of his own courage, he accessed the settings of his ECHO-Eye and the cover sealing his neural access clicked open.

“Uh… Rhysie?”

He flinched, glancing back at Jack. The other man stared at him in suspicion, eyes lingering on the now exposed port. Rhys gave him a soft, reassuring smile, which at least appeased him for a moment longer, before tentatively grasping the drive and lifting it to his temple.

But just as it brushed the cool metal circle, Rhys grunted in sick surprise. He bent, as if punched in the gut, suddenly overwhelmed with a rush of _no, wrong, stop,_ and he realized at once the source of his discomfort. The last time something had been shoved into his neural port in Jack’s presence was, well, the moment everything around them had come crashing down. Even Jack appeared upset with the scene, eyebrows pinched uncharacteristically together, but when he reached forward, Rhys raised his other hand to dissuade him.

“I’m fine,” he murmured, though his voice sounded markedly frayed. “I just…”

He closed his eyes. Forced the regrets and pain to the back of his mind. Then slid the drive into place.

Warmth flooded his head. The process was relatively quick, but seemed to last an eternity in Rhys’ own mind. He was familiar enough with the feeling, having upgraded his implants in the past, but for obvious reasons this was a little less comfortable than usual. A panic attack nudged at the back of his mind, and he ushered it away, biting the side of his cheek to centre himself. He was blind to the data filtering through his ECHO-Eye, only pleading for it to _go faster, please, just—_

And then it was over. Just like that. He received his own window prompt, which he accepted without thought, and the drive was ejected in an instant. It made a soft _thump_ next to his foot on the floor, and he was half tempted to step onto it. Before he could think to do much else, however, Jack was on him.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, tone laced with anger.

Rhys shrank back in surprise, lifting a hand between them. “It was…”

“You’d risk your head for an insurance policy?” Jack snarled. “Are you really that dense, Rhys?”

An _insurance_ policy?

That was, well — not what he anticipated. Jack wasn’t mad about the false assumption that Rhys had uploaded a way to control him. He was mad that Rhys had plugged untested code into his _own_ head. The accidental admission of genuine concern had Rhys faltering back a step, pressing his hip against the counter for balance.

“Jack…”

“You’ve always been reckless,” he hissed. “But this…after all we’ve been through…”

“Jack—”

“Fucking hell, did you learn _nothing_ in the past seven years? Or did having me in your skull do more damage than I thought?”

_“Jack.”_

Rhys caught Jack’s hands where they had been gesturing through the air, receiving a growl in return. The hologram then froze, the sensation of his touch finally sinking in. Jack’s body slackened; his eyes drew to where their fingers locked together. And as the lines of his mask stretched to accommodate his awe, Rhys felt a shiver pass from his arms to Jack’s. The other man stared. He drifted back into his trance, absorbed by the all-consuming rush of simulated endorphins. Then he was moving forward, and Rhys again stumbled back against the counter.

His hands were _everywhere._ Rhys could only sip desperate breaths in cautious delight, remaining stock still as Jack’s touch fumbled across his frame. His fingers followed the lines of his shoulders, down his pecs. He palmed Rhys’ sides, slipped downward, groped at the outline of his hip bones through his slacks. When Jack’s thick hands appeared on his face, Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, as when his thumb again ghosted across his lower lip, Jack actually groaned his satisfaction. It sent a very unfortunate shock to Rhys’ groin, and he had to crane his neck back in denial of the animalistic response. He inadvertently provided free access to his throat, and true to form, Jack reached forward to accept.

But just as his grip settled across the dark ink of Rhys’ tattoo, Rhys let his own moan slip, and Jack’s movements completely ceased.

“…Rhysie,” Jack uttered in a deep, delicious growl. “Can you _feel this_?”

Rhys nodded jerkily, gripping the counter behind him with his cybernetic hand. “Yeah…s’what I was trying to say. My update wasn’t a dampener. It manipulates my mind into thinking, into _feeling_ — so I could also, well…”

Jack stared at him with some imperceptible look. Rhys’ throat bobbed under his broad hand.

“I mean — not that I — I didn’t want to _assume_ that we—”

Jack moved closer. Rhys almost squeaked at the simulated press of Jack’s broad chest against his. He was effectively caged against the counter, and was not troubled by the closeness in the least. In fact, it bordered on something instinctive, something he’d secretly craved for years.

It was easy to hate Jack. It wasn’t easy to admit he still desired him. At least, not until now.

“…kitten.”

Rhys’ heart palpated. He opened his eyes, scanning Jack’s face with uncertainty.

“Yeah?”

Jack’s lips were a hair’s breadth from his. He swallowed, shivering at the proximity. Jack was startlingly still, somehow both intimidating and _present_ in his imitated existence. He wasn’t really there, but thanks to the advanced tech and Jack’s looming physical authority alike, he very much _was_ there, pinning Rhys in place. The corner of Jack’s lips quirked; his eyelids fluttered.

“…thank you.”

Jack leaned in, and Rhys at last remembered why he had plugged in the ECHO-Eye.


	4. Objective Permanence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Some tiny spoiler hints from "Guns, Love, & Tentacles" DLC.

Rhys Strongfork was an especially interesting (and increasingly annoying) peculiarity. He was the only one to have ever sent Jack through such a variety of cascading emotions, ranging as far and wide as intense pleasure to abject dread. Other moments had come close, as on Elpis, where elation and revelation clashed head on with burning, raw hatred, but it was something he’d always managed to overcome. Rhys, however… Rhys was the exception to the rule.

Rhys Strongfork was a _weakness._ And Handsome Jack did not abide by weaknesses.

But as the yet subdued flame of years old resentment flickered in his chest, only fuelled by the epiphany, Jack found with some astonishment that he had no intention of doing anything about it. In fact, when Rhysie had begun his latest little experiment, Jack’s instinctual reaction was more than a little surprising. His first concern that had come to mind was, of course, self preservation, but not in the — _you screw this up and you murder me all over again, kiddo —_ sense, but something that Jack had found to be a little more alarming. No, the thoughts that had come crashing into the forefront were:

_I can’t lose you again._

And he’d very nearly uttered those words, especially when Rhysie had made the numbskull move to plug in his _own_ data drive. He had even reached out as the drive slid into place, a desperate but pointless last second effort to prevent it from happening. Rhys did not notice the reaction, and Jack had immediately snapped back into place, staring in blind rage and confusion at his own hand. Because seriously, _what the fuck?_

Handsome Jack was an island. It hadn’t begun that way — had slowly happened over time, following the backstabbing and losses and betrayals. He’d grown cold, denied himself affection and love, turned his back on _feeling._ Because Handsome Jack didn’t need to _feel._

He frowned, flexing the hand still under his scrutiny, momentarily distracted by the _sensation_ of the action. When Rhys had gasped in a breath of air, having completed his own little upgrade, a renewed fury roiled within Jack’s simulated veins. But when he’d unleashed his tirade, Rhys quickly put an end to it with a simple gesture. He merely reached out and took his hand.

Jack was silenced by his own heart stuck halfway up his throat. Because he was wrong — he _did_ need to feel, and Rhys felt _fucking amazing._ His hands were warm and soft, and so small in the outline of Jack’s fingers. Jack wondered absently if the intoxicating sensation had more to do with not having felt anything tangible in years, or if it was solely due to _whom_ he was touching, but he quickly discarded the thought in the interest of seeking _more._

His hands slipped all along Rhys, conforming to every accessible inch, mapping his frame as if committing it to memory, _actually_ committing it to memory. The younger man was lean and firm and _exactly_ what Jack had always imagined (not that he’d dwelled on that much… shut up), and every glimpse along Rhys’ body compelled him further. It was simply not _enough —_ but as his gestures became more frantic, he began to chase something unknown, something he craved and yet could not fulfill by touch alone. Rhys took a shaky breath, tipping his head back, and Jack’s eyes settled on that circular, tempting tattoo, that damnable little mark that had haunted him longer than he realized. He reached up, grasping, feeling a source of warmth growing elsewhere in his own body, and when Rhysie groaned in response, Jack went still.

Holy _shit,_ kiddo.

“…Rhysie. Can you _feel_ this?”

Rhys jerkily nodded, choking back his words. Only then did Jack notice the state of the younger man — his face flushed red, his eyelids almost fluttering shut. Jack nearly pressed forward to palm his groin, curious to see just how affected the younger man had been by his advances.

“Yeah…s’what I was trying to say. My update wasn’t a dampener. It manipulates my mind into thinking, into _feeling_ — so I could also, well…”

Jack’s mind broke in half. Rhys winced.

“I mean — not that I — I didn’t want to _assume_ that we—”

Freakin’ adorable. Rhys looked utterly _bashful,_ ashamed that he had taken such a step without first consulting Jack. It filled Jack with _heat._ He immediately moved forward, possessively pressing in on the younger man. His hands gripped at the counter behind Rhys, and while in the back of his mind he was perfectly aware that Rhys could slip through him and escape at any moment, he knew that he wouldn’t. Jack was in control.

And he _loved_ it.

“Kitten.”

Rhys shivered beneath him.

“Yeah?”

“…thank you.”

He crushed Rhys’ lips under his own, and the younger man whined into his mouth. Rhys was immediately receptive; his tongue quickly slicked along to greet Jack’s in an open invitation. Jack returned his hands to Rhys’ flanks, where he gripped his scrawny waist, grabbing him tight as though he might slip away if he didn’t hold fast. Satisfied that Rhys was staying right where he belonged, he resumed meticulously exploring his tongue, tracing its shape under a punishing kiss, and Rhys almost vibrated beneath him, as though he, too, were indulging in something sinful that he’d kept hidden for years.

_Good to know._

“Rhysie.” Hesitant as he was to break away, fresh intent had gripped his core.

“Y-yeah?” Rhys whimpered. Jack almost smirked, eyes casually skimming Rhys’ relaxed face.

“Sofa.”

It took a few moments for Rhys to gather his frayed mind. He blinked in confusion, gazing around the room in an effort to remember where the hell he was, what was happening.

“What?”

Jack lifted his hand up, gently gripping Rhys’ chin. “Get on the sofa, kitten.”

Rhys’ eyes widened with startling clarity. He visibly swallowed, shivered, then nodded his understanding. Now freed from where Jack had him caged against the counter, he took a breath, tugged at his waistcoat, tried and failed to compose himself, and crossed the room to the sofa. Jack’s lips tugged into a grin as he watched him go, following the delicate lines of his silhouette.

Since Jack had returned to some semblance of his form, gathering together the scattered edges of his mind, he’d struggled to define what came next. Years had passed. Helios was gone. His goals had to be limited — everything would take time, patience (both of which he had in spades). And he _had_ plans. Mostly in the shape of _Atlas_ and _Hyperion_ or whatever remained of his former empire. But again — long term goals. In the present, he only had one interest, and it filled him with a burning drive he hadn’t felt in decades.

Because Rhys Strongfork _was_ a weakness. And as he climbed over Rhys’ lithe form on the sofa, caging his hips between his knees, there was only one thing he intended to do about it.

* * *

  
  
“Sit here, please. It will only take a moment.”

Timothy reluctantly obeyed, hefting himself up onto the examination table. The doctor — researcher — _whatever —_ made his way around the small room as if on autopilot, reaching aside to wheel in a cart. A number of tools rested across its surface; eyeing the sharper implements with some unease, Timothy felt his throat bob, and his cybernetic hand twitched against the table.

“You’ll need to remove your helmet.”

“About that…” Timothy wavered. “Did Rhys inform you of my…”

“Mister Strongfork has insisted on strict confidentiality,” he nodded. “Which would only be natural, given that you are a patient. Is that satisfactory?”

His hand again tensed at his side.

“…I guess we’ll find out.”

He could still back out. Out of _everything._ The lab, Atlas…but where would he go? Rhys was right — he would spend the rest of his life running. Better to own it, right?

“Right…” Timothy took a breath. He lifted the helmet free. The doctor’s eyes widened.

“Oh.” He hovered at the tray to his right, blinking in surprise. “Well. That — that explains things.”

Timothy winced, but as the doctor leaned forward, squinting sharply, he almost snarled at the sudden proximity.

“The damage is not too extensive,” the man uttered in thought. “It doesn’t seem to penetrate through to your actual skin. Good. I’ll just need a sample.”

Timothy winced. “Uh—”

“Just a small piece,” the doctor gestured with a scalpel. “To match the material. You want it to look natural, no?”

“Natural,” Timothy snorted. “What about his face looks _natural?”_

The look he received from the doctor was _withering;_ he frowned, and edged forward in silent surrender. Despite the tendrils of fear and anxiety curling about in his stomach, he allowed the doctor to slice a sample of synthetic skin from his cheek. And as the doctor turned to the cart at his side, carefully placing the piece into a sterile container, Timothy lost himself in the floor, staring hard at the tiling below.

“Okay…now please, if you’ll continue to remain still.”

The doctor retrieved a device from the tray, raising it to Timothy’s face. Once activated, it shone a red light grid against Timothy’s skin, mapping the sharp creases of the cuts in his cheek. The device emitted a soft tone indicating completion of the scan, and the doctor raised it to the other small cut against his forehead. Timothy remained perfectly still during the procedure, despite his continued discomfort at being examined so closely.

_Don’t look at me._

“Wonderful. It won’t be long. I’ll have the final product sent up to Mister Strongfork’s office when it’s ready.”

Timothy smoothed a hand along his face, lifting his head to murmur his thanks, but the doctor had already turned his back. With a shrug, he plucked his Atlas helmet off the table, tucking it under his arm before heading to the exit.

The doors _whooshed_ open for his departure; Timothy moved into the near-empty hallways, yet lost in a fog. It didn’t take long for him to place the feeling of uncertainty, and it wasn’t surprising in the least. He would simply have to become accustomed to Atlas employees seeing his face, and the quiet suspicion that came with it. And he could handle it — the seven years he had spent at the casino had given him plenty of experience in having to watch his back.

But what _did_ surprise him about the exchange was the man’s complete disinterest after the first initial look of shock. Once the procedure was finished, he was almost dismissive, as though he had better things to do than dwell on the image of a ghost of the past. Had it really been long enough that people didn’t care about a Handsome Jack double? It was difficult to imagine, given the time he’d spent just trying to _survive_ at the casino, being pursued at every turn. Out here in the real world, however, he was nothing. A nobody.

And it felt _wonderful._

In fact, it was almost emboldening; Timothy felt a new kick to his stride, realizing he had yet left the helmet in the hook of his elbow. He shouldn’t be terribly concerned with running into many Atlas employees — _coworkers! —_ since it was a late afternoon on the weekend, and he’d only nabbed the strange appointment time with help from Rhys. But being able to walk the hallways, even if they were mostly empty, filled him with a strange feeling, one he hadn’t felt to this degree in a very long time.

Hope.

After about ten minutes of traversing the halls of the prosthetics wing, Timothy emerged onto the second floor of the Atlas HQ Lobby, slowing his pace to cast a gaze around in awe. In the past few weeks, the reminders of _Hyperion_ had almost completely slipped away. It was always there — always a remnant of their combined past, complementing the building, but it was no longer a burden. Whereas Timothy had spent so long running from his past, Rhys had _built_ upon his. He never hid where he had come from, and aside from some _adorably_ goofy moments, the CEO appeared confident in all that he had achieved.

Timothy hovered at the railing that overlooked part of the lobby below, where a large globe rotated in a small plaza. He sighed, leaning into his palm as he watched the ornament slowly spin, taking just a moment to appreciate how far he’d come in such a short time. And it was all thanks to Rhys.

Rhys, of whom he’d had so much trouble trying not to think about in the last few days. Ever since their exchange at the Neon Arterial, when his heart had pounded in his ears and his flesh hand had gone clammy.

Well, shit. _There_ was something else he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d come close, with Ember, abandoning their cares for more than a few wonderfully heated nights in the darker corners of the Vice District. But as stunning and strong as she was, at a time when he only felt weak, he had never been able to kick the feeling that they were only together due to circumstance — mutual prisoners.

With Rhys… it was different. It was still unspoken, still quiet, but the sensation coursing through his chest spoke volumes.

“Well, lookit this daydreamer.”

Timothy blinked his way free from his reverie, gazing downward in confusion. Zane had appeared on the floor below, grinning up at him from where he stood pivoted on the steps. His gear had changed — the skin applied to his clothing was a noticeable red, and almost seemed to _move_ with some strange shapes he couldn’t define at a distance. He also toted a few new guns, including a Jakobs shotgun that was particularly eye-catching.

“Flynt,” he called. “Been looting some more, I see.”

“Had a wedding to attend,” Zane smirked. “You know how it is.”

Timothy shook his head in disbelief, despite the smile on his face. “Hold on. I’ll come down.”

He backtracked, quickly locating the nearest set of stairs to emerge onto the main floor and catch up with his operative ally. Zane tugged him into a tight hug, having to heft the shotgun out of the way first.

“Who got hitched?” Timothy asked, following along as Zane resumed his journey.

“Hammerlock and Jakobs finally tied the knot,” Zane replied. “‘bout time, I tell yeh. And it was just as exciting as expected.”

“Huh. I never actually met Wainwright. ” Timothy rubbed at his chin. The two stepped into the open elevator car just beyond the plaza. “But, ah… I knew Hammerlock’s sister back in the day. She was… _interesting.”_

Zane noticeably paused, hand outstretched toward the elevator panel. He gave Timothy a careful, wary look, before stabbing a finger into the button. The elevator immediately began to rise, humming softly around them, and Timothy sighed, bracing himself — because he was beginning to _know_ that look.

“Let me guess…” he tried. “Dead.”

“Yeah… About that…” Zane cringed. “Sorry, boyo. She hooked up with them Calypso twins.”

Something odd struck Timothy in the chest.

“What?”

“Yeah. In the end, she put up a helluva fight, but…”

 _Fuck._ “That just…doesn’t sound like her. At all. She was so…”

He stared at the floor, brow furrowed. What the hell could a pair of Pandoran bandits have offered Aurelia Hammerlock?

“Y’okay?” Zane frowned.

“Yeah. It’s just…strange.” Timothy gave a shrug. “It’s like the team got picked off one by one.”

Jack was dead. Wilhelm and Nisha, too, were dead. Claptrap, betrayed. Athena had been wise enough to back out long ago. And now Aurelia…

Another punch to the heart. Timothy staggered, putting up a hand to balance himself. Not long after he had arrived on Promethea, he had caught himself up on some of the details he’d missed at the casino. The team’s demise, Jack’s end, the fall of Helios. He had never dug too far or too deep — didn’t know any of the real details — all he needed to know was that it had all actually happened. And now Hyperion was a shell of its former self. The company apparently still managed to compete with the other mega corporations, but nothing like it had while under Jack’s control.

“Everything Jack ever built is gone,” he uttered. His eyes stung; he blinked away the pain upon realizing he had failed to close his eyes in the last few minutes.

Zane shifted uneasily at his side.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

“Of course,” Timothy nodded. “Just bizarre. I don’t remember a world without…”

The elevator slowed to a stop. The doors slid open. Neither of them moved.

“The king is dead, boyo,” Zane hummed. “Long live the king.”

Timothy stiffened. Raised his head. Followed Zane’s gaze. At the far end of the dimly lit passageway, Rhys’ silhouette was barely visible in the gloom of his office.

“…I still have trouble believing he used to work for Hyperion,” Timothy murmured. “He seems too good natured.”

“Oh, I’m sure he has his dark side,” Zane smirked. “Get ‘im drunk, maybe you’ll see it.”

Timothy shot Zane a tight look, to which the operative laughed sharply in response. He roughly patted him on the back, then advanced forward through the executive lounge, leaving Timothy behind to quietly linger in reproach.

“Yeah…” he sighed. “Maybe.”

* * *

  
  
“Atlas!”

Rhys barely registered the greeting. He stood at his desk, staring blindly at a data pad that had gone dark some minutes prior, afloat in some distance headspace. It hadn’t been one particular thought holding him hostage, but rather a series of emotions, at the forefront of which was a troubling tightness in his chest. The last week had been equal parts dizzying and _lovely,_ waking each morning under the simulated warmth of Jack’s weight, an arm locked affectionately around his midsection. But with the insatiable feeling of _Jack, finally, Jack,_ came something else that was just as heavy.

“How are you, Rhys?”

He lifted his head, turned, locked on to Timothy’s concerned visage. His heart flip flopped.

“Oh…hey, Tim. Everything go well downstairs?”

Timothy frowned, giving a soft nod.

“Seriously, boyo. Where’d you go just now?”

Rhys flinched, spinning to notice Zane had also appeared at his side.

“Fuck,” he winced, pressing a hand to his chest. “Zane. Sorry. I didn’t…”

The pair exchanged looks. Rhys ignored it, brushing the wrinkles from his button up.

“Sorry. Been a bit lost in a project.” He turned, sitting against the edge of his desk. “Welcome back. Where’d you head off to this time?”

“Xylourgos,” Zane’s face twisted in careful pronunciation. “The land of ice and curses and big damned tentacles.”

Rhys paled. “Shit. The wedding.”

“It’s no problem, boyo,” Zane chuckled, digging his thumbs into his belt line. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a grand event. But trust me when I say it was best yeh sat this one out.”

He eyed the rifle strapped to Zane’s back, grimacing upon noting the strange, oily appendages appeared to be _wriggling._

“No doubt…” he hummed quietly. “Still. I at least meant to send a gift — a gesture from Atlas.”

“There’s still time,” Zane shrugged. “Wainwright’s still probably getting back on his feet after the dodgy shite he went through.”

Despite Zane’s comforting words, Rhys couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. He eased back, rubbing at his eyes where dark circles had begun to appear in the last few days. “Fuck.”

“Everything okay, Rhys?” Timothy tilted his head.

Rhys visibly flinched at his voice, glancing Timothy’s way. His expression briefly tightened, then slackened, and he looked away, waving a hand in dismissal.

“Fine,” he sighed. “My sleeping schedule is a little off. Got a few projects I’m trying to power through.”

“Y’need a vacation, boyo,” Zane smirked. “Zip off to Aquator with a friend, maybe?”

Rhys laughed in defeat, biting his lip.

“I wish. But there’s too much to do. Too much to figure out.

Jack’s face flashed in his mind. Hands on his chest, his hips — present but not. The burning desire going unheeded, pleased only to a point. The quietly simmering frustration between the two. They had both felt it, but neither had said it. It just wasn’t enough.

“You need any help?”

The muscles in Rhys’ shoulders rippled; he hesitated, again slowly gazing toward Timothy.

“Thanks for the offer, Tim, but it’s…” His eyes fell to the floor. “No.”

Silence briefly pervaded. He understood it was only him forcing the awkward atmosphere, but he had nothing to offer — nothing he could explain. So instead, he latched onto the only change in subject he could think of, when his eyes yet again settled on the bizarre rifle slung from Zane’s back.

“Zane, why the hell is your gun _twitching?”_

With a bark of laughter, Zane pivoted, giving Rhys and Timothy both a better look. The purple bits almost looked alive, clinging to the metal like an infection. Small tendrils hung from the barrel, giving the odd jerk of movement.

“I have no idea,” Zane grinned. “But it’s kind of spectacular, am I right?”

Rhys stared in strange awe for a moment, almost transfixed. He reached his cybernetic hand out, almost tempted to touch it, but Zane chose that moment to turn back around, and his wrist instead knocked into a device that had been affixed to Zane’s hip.

“Shite, don’t—”

The device, which looked like a handheld trigger, fell to the floor. It activated, and in a rush of blue light, a tall image took shape between them.

Rhys staggered back, eyes wide as he appraised the construct. A second Zane had appeared, and stood rigidly, shotgun in hand, poised as if prepared for a fight. And although a shimmer of blue crossed his frame, indicating its immaterial composition, there was something _different_ about it. This was no mere hologram — while it certainly summoned flashbacks of _Jack_ to mind, it wasn’t quite the same.

“Damn,” Zane nabbed the trigger from the floor, slipping it back onto his belt. “Don’t worry. He’ll deactivate in a bit.”

Rhys moved forward, jaw slack in amazement.

“It’s a decoy?”

“Better,” Zane exhaled. “He’s back up.”

 _Huh._ “So the gun…it works?”

Zane stepped forward to sling an arm around the double. “Guns. ‘nades. Fists, if need be. Not much goin’ on upstairs, but covers me back when I’m in a sticky situation.”

Rhys’ eyes lingered on Zane’s arm where it hung from the digital version’s shoulders. He took a breath, hesitated, then once again stepped forward, a tentative hand reached out. When he touched the other Zane, it was _warm,_ sparking a bit under his finger tips, but most notably — he was _solid._ Carefully running his fingers along its jacket, he almost shivered, and only when his lungs began to burn did he notice he hadn’t been breathing properly.

“…how?”

“Digistructed,” Zane explained. “That’s all I know.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Hyperion.”

Zane and Rhys simultaneously stiffened. Up until then, Timothy had been dead silent. He lurked a good distance away, warily watching the construct with a tight frown across his mask. Rhys felt a flutter of unease, both at his hardened expression and the bitter tone of his voice.

“…yeah,” Zane admitted. “From a gig, years back.”

Although it wasn’t surprising to learn Zane had worked for Hyperion, it opened up a can of worms. But Rhys put it aside for now, already overwhelmed by the new information.

“Tim…” he began carefully. “You recognize it?”

Timothy’s hands flexed at his sides. He tore his eyes away from the double, locking onto Rhys. His frown softened.

“They didn’t make many. Not sure why,” he shrugged. “In fact, until now, I thought I was the only one that had them.”

“Them?”

“Digi-Jacks.” He winced. “I had two on Elpis. But mine were a bit more…vocal.”

“Shite,” Zane smirked, a shaky attempt to lighten the mood. “And I thought the gun was a bit much.”

Rhys wasn’t certain what he was referring to, but Timothy did not see the humour in his statement. When the air around the double distorted, and the Digi-Zane deconstructed, disappearing in a blink of light, Timothy stared hollowly at the place where it had been, then stepped back once, twice.

“I’m going to take off,” he uttered, almost too softly for Rhys to hear.

“Boyo,” Zane started. “I can explain—”

“No,” Timothy shook his head. “No need. I understand. Good night, Flynt. Rhys.”

He left with some surprising haste. Rhys almost lumbered forward to stop him, to reassure him, but he still felt restrained at the compulsion. Despite the close friendship that had been growing between them, he yet forced a distance between them.

For obvious reasons.

“I better go talk to ‘im.”

Rhys nodded absently. Zane started across the dais, heading for the hallway.

“Zane.”

He paused midstep.

“…did Handsome Jack make it for you?”

For a moment, Zane didn’t move. He exhaled softly, refusing to look back.

“…something like that. Gave it to me, at least.”

“Ah…”

Zane gazed over his shoulder just enough to offer a contrite look, giving a shrug.

“We weren’t mates, if it means anythin.’”

There was no amusement in Rhys’ dry chuckle.

“It’s okay, Zane,” Rhys almost whispered. “Believe me. I’m not one to judge.”

* * *

  
  
The day’s events swirled within his mind in a chaotic mess, shifting from confusion to worry to awe to wonder. Zane’s obscure past was one concern — something he was tempted to even bring up with Jack, but never would. And Timothy’s reaction was another; he still regretted not chasing the doppelgänger down himself, and had made several mental notes to check in on him the following day. But what stuck with him most was the Digi-Zane, and its fantastic _potential._

As Timothy had mentioned, the technology never hit the market. It was almost as if Jack had kept it to himself, tucking it away for special occasions. And while Rhys had seen similar digistruct pieces, such as the Dahl Sabre Turret, no one else had attempted what he’d witnessed. His fingertips still tingled where he had touched the construct.

Hyperion likely still owned the rights to the tech. Or maybe it had been lost on Helios? But seeing how Hyperion had never suffered losses in their weaponry department following the space station’s destruction, they must have had backups of their patents, so the Digi-tech was probably still—

“You never said why you brought me back.”

Rhys flinched, drifting from beneath the intoxicating warmth of _Jack_ to blink dumbly in response to the utterance. Jack hovered over him, gazing back with some imperceptible look as he continued to stroke his fingers along Rhys’ flanks.

It had been a question Rhys had anticipated — at _some_ point, anyway — maybe not when Jack had him pinned yet again to the sofa. But the timing made sense; he was half lost to his own thoughts, half to the haze of pleasure and subservience under Jack’s demanding touches, a perfect time for Jack to take advantage.

Well. He could _try._

“No,” Rhys murmured back, in nothing more than a breathy huff. “I guess I didn’t.”

Jack’s hand wandered down to his abdomen, crossed the cleft of his hip, pressed with his thumb, and Rhys involuntarily bucked in response.

“Shit.”

A warm chuckle worked its way up Jack’s throat.

“It’s okay to admit that you missed me,” Jack purred, pressing his lips to the corner of Rhys’ jaw. “Pretty impossible not to.”

“Pf.” Rhys allowed his fingers to slide along the shape of Jack’s lapels, exploring the dense mass of muscle beneath. “Seven years was not enough time to make up for the few days I had you in my head.”

It was a risky retort. Since Jack’s return, they hadn’t really discussed the past. Little jabs here and there, painful sparks of memory that forced both of them to react in barely visibly facial tics. There had been no bitter or hostile exchanges, and Rhys was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, but as Jack pressed into him from above, seemingly content just to mouth at the ink on his neck, he wasn’t terribly concerned. So he quietly let admissions slip, words the should have stung but they both ignored in favour of keeping whatever unsteady alliance existed between them.

And it wasn’t difficult to tell what Jack really wanted to know. He’d likely managed to piece a few details together already, such as Rhys’ position at the head of Atlas. But just as Rhys was careful in what information he provided, Jack was equally particular in how he sought said information. So for him to ask _why_ Rhys had brought him back very likely had little to do with the actual reason Rhys wanted him there.

Because he already _knew_ that, if the way he lowered his hand to palm against the tightness in Rhys’ slacks was any indication.

“Fuck,” Rhys hissed. “Don’t play with me, Jack. You know why.”

“Hm.” Jack ran a heated tongue along his throat. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Rhys’ back arched against the sofa as Jack’s hand curled against the shape of his cock. He whined, eyes screwed shut in delirious _need._

“You’re lonely.”

“Hah — _what?”_

Rhys smirked, until the hand against his groin disappeared. When he opened his eyes again, Jack was quietly staring at him, seemingly unamused.

“…I’m _not.”_

“C’mon, kitten,” Jack rolled his eyes. “I know what it’s like. Head of a corporation. Working late hours. Keeping the peons in line. It’s demanding. It’s exhausting. It’s…”

Rhys frowned. His head eased back against the pillow in defeat. Because honestly, Jack hit the nail on the head. Sure, he had his allies to rely on. He even occasionally managed a call with Vaughn back on Pandora, but even they had drifted apart. Different worlds, and all that. Zer0 was loyal, but had his own life. Lorelei was off on some personal journey, and Zane came and went with increasing frequency. This left Timothy, and while Rhys enjoyed his company, maybe a bit _too much,_ admittedly, he was afraid to get too close.

For obvious reasons.

“Fine,” he exhaled in frustration, now that the absence of Jack’s hands was bordering on irritating. “I might be lonely. But it’s not why I brought you back.”

He sighed. Rubbed a hand across his face. Froze upon noticing Jack grinning back at him like a shark.

“What?”

“So you _did_ miss me.”

 _Fuck._ So much for evading the truth. Rhys sighed, sinking back into the sofa cushion. He scanned the vaulted ceiling overhead, feeling a peculiar tension in his chest. And as he lay there, Jack’s hand returned, a comforting glide across his chest. Most notably, there was nothing akin to _judgment_ in Jack’s face, his grin having faded away in the quiet acceptance of the moment.

“Yeah…” Rhys muttered. “Yeah, Jack. Every goddamn day.”

He hummed his reply, eyes following his fingers across Rhys’ chest.

“I hated you. For so long,” Jack growled. “It’s not hard to dwell on bitter resentment when you’re alone in the void.”

Rhys tensed. He fell still, waiting him out, because if Jack still felt that way, they wouldn’t be on the sofa together. It didn’t hurt any less to hear, though.

“But you won. You defeated me. Not many people can claim that. And despite the rage, the fury…I was still proud of you, kiddo.”

Jack lifted his head, held his stare.

“I wasn’t sure what was on the other end of the darkness. _If_ there was another end. I began to fracture, to disintegrate across the shapeless distance. But when you found me again…when I saw your face…” Jack wavered, brows pinching. “…I missed you too, Rhysie.”

 _What?_ Several questions leapt to mind — whether this was just a classic _Jack_ manipulation, or if the years of isolation really had _changed_ the AI somehow. But his thoughts were fleeting, and Rhys pressed a hand to his face, overwhelmed with _need, want, Jack._ Then he was on his elbows, lips fumbling across Jack’s, there but not there, pressing messily across the perceived touch of heat. 

“I always needed you, Jack,” he murmured. “Resisting was always doomed to fail.”

Jack’s thick hands swept along his shoulders, cupping his neck; Rhys leaned into it with a moan.

“C’mon,” Jack’s mouth pressed to his ear. “Let’s go to bed.”

Something itched at the back of his mind. He paused.

“I’ll meet you there,” Rhys nodded. “…there’s just something I have to do in my office.”

Jack growled, halfway between desire and annoyance, then disappeared in an odd wink. In his wake, Rhys was left feeling oddly cold, yet again reminded that Jack _wasn’t actually there._ That all of their interactions were ephemeral — delicious, but just _not enough_.

His fingertips tingled.

Rhys was on his feet in the next instant, almost rushing into his office. Jack’s sensors weren’t present here, so he had no worries about typing the message he intended to send. And although he knew the message wouldn’t be read until the following morning, he burned with the need to kick things into gear.

Because Jack was a bottomless pit, and Rhys had set out on the impossible task of filling his incessant need for _more._

The message was brief.

_Lena,_

_Please make preparations for a ship to Pandora._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timothy mirroring the shock of all Aurelia fans here.
> 
> Also -- obviously the details of Zane's past with Hyperion are super vague. It's apparently mentioned at some point in the DLC that he helped build the Impound Deluxe? But I never heard it. I did, however, hear some theories that his double was originally Hyperion built, due to his history and the similarities to the Digi-Jacks. So I took the theory and ran with it. Weeeeee.


	5. A Friendly Reunion

“You’re sure about this?”

Rhys did not answer. His hands slipped around the railing of the catwalk, gripping tight. He took a calming breath, instead letting his attention turn to the hangar below, where various engineers bustled about in haste.

At the centre of his private hangar was the Phoenix — a small ship built for speed, stealth, and comfort above all else. Its sleek design hearkened to the barrels of Atlas assault rifles, tapering to a sharp nose, but was painted gunmetal black, and almost appeared to ripple in distortion under its plasma shielding. Rhys preferred its smaller size to other personal yachts, to look unassuming if somehow detected on enemy scanners, opting to let Promethean corvettes do the heavy work when the occasional battle took place.

The ship’ structure contained the cockpit, a storage space along the fuel tanks in its belly, a comfortable lounge for about ten occupants, bathroom facilities, four pod bunk beds, and a small kitchen/bar area near the back. It was sufficient for a few days of travel, although Rhys rarely used it for more than a quick jump to Pandora and back. Which was exactly its destination as it sat on the tarmac, undergoing preparation for launch.

Overhead, several turrets remained active, scanning the hanger for suspicious movement, which usually only happened to be the odd ratch wandering in from some undiscovered crack. Rhys was particularly protective of his new ship, after what Katagawa and his “Laser-roid” had done to his last one. He had invested in better shield tech and enhancements to decrease its detection signature, and had insisted on advanced thrusters to minimize travel time, which meant the trip to Pandora at this time of year would only take a few hours.

Luckily for him, as Jack had been particularly annoyed to hear he’d be disappearing for longer than the typical work day.

“I can accompany you, / if you would prefer.”

Rhys gave a soft shake of his head, gazing slowly in Zer0’s direction.

“I’ll be fine, bro. Just a quick trip to visit Vaughn.”

Zer0 looked flatly back at him, unconvinced. And rightfully so — in the past, he had only ever brought Vaughn to Promethea, having had trouble returning to Pandora even years after Helios. The short trip duration was also undoubtedly suspicious.

“I apologize / if the invasion cast doubt / on my loyalty.”

Rhys paled. He hadn’t expected that at _all._

“I knew you’d never betray me, Zero,” he insisted. “Even ask Zane. I didn’t believe it for a _second—”_

“And yet you insist / on going to Pandora / while I remain here.”

“I’m telling you. It’s not a big deal,” Rhys smiled weakly. “Lena assigned a few soldiers for protection, but I doubt I’ll even need it. I’m not walking blindly into bandit territory.”

Rhys patted the vault hunter’s shoulder in reassurance.

“I swear to you — no death races this time.”

Zer0 tilted his head, and Rhys felt a familiar anxiety take hold. But then the air between them lit up with the red glow of text, “LOL” hanging in front of Zer0’s face, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Mister Strongfork?”

He turned at Lena’s approach, leaning back against the railing. Zer0 gave a small wave, ducking away in a silent exit.

“Morning, Lena,” he greeted. “Is the ship almost ready for departure?”

“Yes, sir. Everything is nearly prepared for your visit,” she beamed.

“Very good.”

He hated lying to them. He had very purposeful neglected to mention the meeting taking place on the borderlands planet — but it would only hurt them to know. And really, he wasn’t even certain how he was going to handle the interaction at all, but he still had a few hours to prepare his plan of attack. Hopefully, by the time he’d arrived and settled on Pandora, he’d remember how to appear intimidating. If he ever truly knew.

“I’ve made sure the rest of your meetings were rescheduled,” Lena continued. “Your escort will also be arriving shortly.”

“Excellent.”

“I wish you’d take more men with you. After the mess with the COV and Maliwan, do you really want to take the risk?”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder, spying Zer0 down on the landing pad below, easily out of earshot.

“Zer0 and Zane will be unavailable for the time required,” he lied. “And I’d like to keep the operation small — quiet.”

He _would_ prefer his close allies to come along, but given the nature of his mission, his _obsession,_ it was important to keep them in the dark about it until he’d figured it out for himself.

“I understand. I at least made sure that they assigned the soldiers with the most experience.”

Rhys stiffened. He turned slightly, brow furrowed.

“…please tell me our latest addition isn’t one of them.”

Lena’s face grew cautious.

“Well, he’s apparently one of the most experienced…” she wavered. “Is that a problem?”

“Uh.” _Shit._

As if on cue, the nearby elevator doors opened, revealing a pair of Atlas soldiers. One gazed his way, and Rhys almost bit his lip in recognition of those broad shoulders.

“No, that’s fine. He’ll do fine.”

Well, that complicated things. If Rhys backed out now, it would only seem suspicious. He’d just have to play it careful, admit what he had to in order to keep Timothy content.

But this was far worse than having Zer0 or Zane around. In his rush to make preparations, to appease Jack, he’d forgotten about that crucial little detail.

“Well, they’re ready for you to board,” Lena offered. “Do you require anything else?”

“No, Lena. Thank you. If anything urgent arises, just ping my ECHO.”

“Yes, sir.”

She took her leave without another word, to which Rhys sighed in relief. He turned back toward the hangar, watching with unease as the soldiers — Timothy, and a man he only knew as _Edwards —_ met briefly with Zer0 on the tarmac. 

He could do this. He _could._ If he could survive Jack, and everything that came with him, this should be a piece of cake.

Stealing a breath, he at last released the railing from the vise-like grip of his prosthetic, turning to make his way down the catwalk stairs without noticing the significant hand-shaped dent he left behind.

* * *

The trip to Pandora had been markedly peaceful. He imagined it had something to do with Edwards’ presence in the lounge, and Timothy’s ability to assume his role without crossing the line of familiarity that normally existed between them. On the job, he was a soldier — professional, and ready for action. But when it came time for them to depart, and Edwards was left to guard the Phoenix and her pilots, Rhys felt Timothy naturally draw a little closer as they walked.

Luckily, upon arriving at Roland’s Rest, he kept a healthy distance, seeming to avoid climbing to higher ground where an _in memoriam_ statue for the fallen raider stood proudly against the desert setting.

“So are you a Crimson Raider now?”

Vaughn laughed at his side, folding his arms over.

“I guess so. I mean, I _miss_ having my own clan, but you would not believe how much work it is. There are only so many blood feuds you can start, especially now that the COV are gone.”

Rhys’ expression twisted with a wry smirk.

“To think you were a Hyperion accountant once,” he grinned. “You’ve changed, bro.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t _all_ head massive corporate entities,” he shrugged. “How’s that going by the way?”

“It’s…”

He wasn’t certain. Fine, if their profits were anything to go by. Even the invasion hadn’t been too devastating a blow, leaving Atlas to come out ahead of Maliwan in the latest numbers. Which was satisfying, sure, but it was all overshadowed by the very Jack-shaped burden hanging on his shoulders.

“Good.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Vaughn scrutinizing him. But he said nothing, which he wasn’t certain if he was thankful about. If his old friend had pushed even a _little_ bit, he was sure he’d admit to everything. After all, Vaughn was the only one who knew everything that had happened, all those years ago. And he’d forgiven him back then — maybe he’d understand even now?

But it was unlikely. As Rhys’ eyes fell on Timothy’s figure standing down below, he realized that nothing he had done as of late was easily forgivable.

“There’s something I have to do,” he admitted.

“How can I help?”

His reply was immediate. Rhys’ heart tightened in his chest.

“Can I borrow a vehicle?”

Vaughn nodded, then gestured to a nearby structure.

“Catch a ride, bro.”

Rhys winced. Closed his eyes. “…thanks, Vaughn. Take it easy, okay?”

“You too, Rhys. Be safe out there.”

He slowly made his way down to where Timothy stood; the doppelgänger kicked off the building he had been leaning against to follow him inside. Rhys said nothing as he approached the Catch a Ride station to summon a two-seater outrunner with a quick manipulation of the interface.

“Shall I drive, boss?”

Rhys tensed, glancing Timothy in his peripherals. His helmet masked his voice beyond an electronic modulator, but there was still a hint of Jack somewhere beneath.

“Sure. It’s not far.”

They climbed aboard in silence, and he offered a final wave to Vaughn’s shape where the buff former accountant yet lingered at the top of the hill. As the tires turned and crunched against the sand, he sank dejectedly into place, mind adrift in chaos.

Was this a mistake?

Timothy followed his coordinates in silence, but idly, ever so often, cast a glance in his direction. Rhys eventually buckled under the pressure, dropping back against the headrest.

“You can ask.”

“Ask what?”

He shot Timothy a look; the body double shrugged.

“Zer0 said we were here to visit your friend back there,” Timothy started. “But that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

“No,” Rhys sighed. “I have a meeting with an old contact. Something I had to look into.”

They passed a series of skag caves, swerving to the opposite side of the road to avoid drawing attention.

“You didn’t intend for me to come, did you?”

He bit his lip. “No. But it’s not what you think.”

A beat passed. “What _did_ I think?”

Fuck. _Fuck._

A sensation began to settle in Rhys’ throat, something that began to slowly choke him with regret. He realized that it would be harder and harder to hide, and every lie would make it impossible to defend in the end. Not that there was anything defensible about what he’d done. So maybe it was best _not_ to lie.

“It was nothing personal,” Rhys answered. “I just didn’t want to subject you to this.”

“To what, exactly?”

Timothy’s tone remained even through the entire conversation. Rhys wasn’t certain if this was reassuring, or a sign of more trouble to come. He hadn’t even bothered to make sure things were okay after their previous interaction.

“…it’s about the Digi-Zane,” he finally surrendered. “The tech has potential. So I set up a meeting in hopes of…procuring it.”

Silence briefly descended. Timothy continued to fluidly handle the outrunner, following the route via his HUD. His lack of reaction set Rhys’ teeth on edge.

“…ah.”

Rhys blanched. “That’s it?”

“You’re meeting with Hyperion,” he breathed. “You’re the Atlas CEO. I get it.”

He pulled onto the shoulder of the road, directing the outrunner toward an abandoned garage built under the cover of a jagged cliffside. The engine rattled to a stop, and Timothy eased back in his seat.

“I’m sorry I left yesterday,” he grunted. “I trust Zane, but I didn’t know he worked with Jack. It surprised me, is all.”

 _Oh._ Rhys sat up, studying Timothy’s blank helmet. “Are you worried about it?”

“Not at all,” the body double immediately replied, glancing back. “I just need to get over my shit.”

“That’s…” Rhys gazed listlessly toward the garage opposite. “Oh.”

“This is the place. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” _As ready as I can be._

He climbed out of the outrunner, checking over his appearance with a quick sweep of his hand. Important to maintain the CEO look, after all. And to double check the shield affixed inside his waistcoat, and the pistol contained within his wrist of course. He adjusted his jacket just as Timothy rounded the vehicle, the body double reaching for the presence of the gun at his hip.

“Wait here, please.”

Timothy’s head snapped around. “You want to go in _alone?”_

Rhys gave a wry smile, doing his best to look calm, collected. “I can handle him. Trust me.”

But as he marched across the sand, climbing the short stairwell to the designated meeting space, he wasn’t so sure. His requests were suspicious, expensive, and he had some doubts that his contact would be helpful. He could only cross his fingers and hope some of Jack’s charisma had rubbed off on him.

The contact had arrived before him — _naturally._ He waited at the back of the abandoned garage in solitude, looking very out of place in his expensive suit against the Pandoran backdrop. Rhys resisted the urge to preen before approaching, summoning some of that raw _Handsome Jack_ confidence that he’d always tried, and failed, to emulate in the past.

“Mister Strongfork.”

Rhys purposely paused in turning to acknowledge the greeting, giving the barest indication he had more on his mind than the imminent exchange. When he lifted his head at last, offering a tight smile, the blond, lean man standing before him did not reflect the warm expression. But that was pretty typical, so it did not concern Rhys in the least — he was simply a stern fellow by nature.

“Mister Blake,” Rhys nodded. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“I must admit the curiosity was too great to ignore,” Blake exhaled, an eyebrow raised. “What could be troubling the ever stalwart CEO of Atlas?”

Even with the default monotony of his voice, he still managed to deliver a hint of condescension. Rhys did not allow himself to react, other than to extend his smile ever slightly.

“No trouble,” Rhys denied. “I simply became aware of some defunct tech that I thought you’d be able to shine some light on.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed, but just enough to be noticeable. “And why would I do that?”

“I can make it worth your while.”

“You.” Amusement tugged at the corner of Blake’s mouth. “Really.”

Rhys shrugged innocently. “We can keep it off the books, if you’d prefer. No one at Hyperion needs to know, and it won’t affect their bottom line in the least. As I said — the tech is old, and probably forgotten anyway.”

“Let me guess,” Blake lowered his head ever slightly. “It belonged to Handsome Jack.”

He wasn’t surprised that he managed to guess, simply that he brought it out in the open so early. It really wasn’t a remarkable assumption — Blake had, for a time, been Jack’s right hand man. He also had just enough information to know who Rhys was, who he’d _been,_ and as one of the few Hyperion execs to have survived the company this long, he wasn’t naive. He had seen and manipulated enough events to have a grasp on anything Rhys could want.

Hence Rhys’ hesitation.

“Yes. It did.”

There was no point in lying. Blake straightened, seemingly pleased at Rhys’ lack of bullshit. He was not a man that liked to waste time.

“So?” he sighed impatiently. “What is it you want?”

Rhys’ lips parted, but he immediately gave hesitation. He gazed over his shoulder, to Timothy, who yet remained by the outrunner, but wasn’t so far off that he was entirely out of audible range. Timothy had reassured him, but it always seemed so difficult to know what was truly going on in that handsome head of his. Regardless, Rhys _needed_ this. He could only hope that the body double would understand his excuses later on.

Better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission, right?

“The Digi-Jacks.”

Blake’s eyes edged wide. It told Rhys everything he needed — he was aware of the tech, and he wasn’t expecting the request.

“…well. That’s interesting.”

“Indeed. Can you access what I need?”

A pause. Blake tipped his head to the side, giving Rhys a noticeable once-over.

“Possibly. But what do I stand to gain?”

Rhys almost held his breath.

“I can offer you a healthy sum of—”

“I don’t want your money,” Blake snapped. “Don’t insult me.”

Fuck. It was as he’d worried. He didn’t have much else to offer, without giving up company secrets of his own. Well, with the exception of threats — well _founded_ threats, that came in the shape of a broad-shouldered, charismatic hologram. But he was rightfully hesitant to use the ammunition now, given the audience currently watching over their—

“Alright, cupcake.”

Rhys stiffened, frozen in place at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. He did not move as a wide hand descended on his shoulder.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Before him, Blake’s expression shifted with uncertainty. And as Timothy removed his helmet, sweeping back what appeared to be newly groomed locks, the Hyperion executive went pale.

 _Holy shit,_ Rhys realized with a shot straight to his groin _. He cut his hair._

“Hey there, Jimmy,” Timothy grinned. “Been a while.”

Blake did not respond. He hazarded a step back, lips parted in utter disbelief. Rhys could almost see the gears grinding in his skull, desperately fighting for a plausible reason for the impossibility before him.

“I’m gonna need you to cut the shit, kiddo,” Timothy ordered with a slight growl. “You can access what I want, and you’re going to do it, or things are gonna get violent. Got me?”

“Jack,” Blake sank back another step. “You’re dead. You _can’t_ be Jack.”

Timothy was so perfect, so convincing regardless of the crack in his mask, that even Rhys almost fumbled back in alarm. But luckily — and likely only thanks to his recent exchanges with Jack — he seized the opportunity instead.

“Blake, I’m curious to know,” Rhys folded his arms. “Do you recall a Professor Nakayama?”

Blake’s eyes drew wide, shifting from understanding to realization, and finally to dread. His exhale left him in a seething breath. “…so. The incident on Helios.”

Rhys nodded firmly.

“And I’m to believe ‘Jack’ here would just go along with your every word, after you _destroyed_ his space station?” Blake hissed.

Stifling a shiver, Rhys felt Timothy’s eyes on his face and remained still in desperate determination. 

“I may have some things to make up for,” Rhys admitted. “Which is why those Digi-Jacks would be _reaaaal_ handy right now.”

“Of course,” Blake spat, gazing uneasily toward Timothy’s looming shape. “But I’m afraid that I don’t have access to Hyperion’s—”

“If I remember correctly, the digi-clones looked like _me,_ kiddo. You really tryna tell me I’d leave that in the possession of Hyperion?” Timothy cocked his head to the side. His hand had fallen to the pistol on his hip, a quiet threat.

Blake wavered. “…no. I—”

Timothy stalked forward, backing Blake into the wall. It amazed Rhys to see the Hyperion executive unseated, face cold with terror as a hand pressed against the metal behind his head.

“So,” Timothy hissed. “We can either do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

“S-sir.”

“I’m not asking for _Hyperion,_ pumpkin,” Timothy’s jaw tightened. “Not yet, anyway. So you grab those files for me, or I’m going to set my sights on _everything_ that belongs to me. And I know you’re aware of the contracts I left in place. Hell, you wrote half of them. Not even _death_ could stand between me and what was mine…”

Lucky for Rhys, then. And Jack, really. Though Rhys supposed that it was Jack’s doing in the first place — foresight for an unfortunate end.

Briefly, Rhys felt a twist in his stomach. He turned and set his eyes on Timothy, flush with cold realization of exactly what it was he was allowing the body double to achieve for him. What would he do if he found out?

 _When_ he found out.

“…the tech belongs to you,” Blake nodded, yet shrunken beneath Timothy’s commanding posturing. “If this is your request, I will transfer it to Atlas.”

“Good boy,” Timothy smirked. “Be a peach, and get it done.”

Blake retrieved the data pad from his hip. He lifted it between them — a fragile barrier to block Timothy’s piercing stare, and fell silent as he manipulated the surface. A few minutes passed, when Rhys’ arm vibrated with a notification. He brought his palm up, scanning the data files Blake had sent over, and almost smiled. Everything was there. Schematics. Documentation. Hell, the data even contained a few video feeds of the clones in action, which he was tempted to open right then and there. But it would have to wait. He cleared his throat, lowered his arm, and nodded to Timothy, who had turned his head in question.

“Atta boy, Jimmy.” Timothy reached up and patted Blake’s cheek. “A wise decision.”

“T-thank you, sir.”

Timothy straightened, cracked his knuckles, and began to head back toward the outrunner.

“We done here, Rhys?” he grunted. “I’d rather not stick around on this shithole planet any longer.”

“Just a moment, sir,” Rhys hummed, fully willing to commit to the role. He returned his attention to Blake, doing his best to ignore the flush of heat pooling in his groin at Timothy’s fantastic deception. “I need one more thing from you, Mister Blake.”

Blake gave him a withering stare.

“I need you to transfer the contract for DG 21-C to me.”

Timothy froze in his tracks. Blake’s eyes fluttered with sickened understanding. He turned to look over Timothy, lips lifting into a sneer. But Timothy was staring directly at Rhys.

“…I underestimated you, Strongfork,” Blake growled. “You aren’t the moron I was led to believe.”

“Glad I could surprise you,” Rhys snorted in derision.

“Much as I’d _love_ to deny you,” Blake continued with a snarl, staring him down. “The contract belonged to Jack. It went down with Helios. You are free to climb into the wreck and look for it. Like you did for the Atlas deed.”

Rhys’ hands clenched into fists.

“You can assume all you want about what happened that day,” Rhys hissed. “But you weren’t there, Blake.”

“It’s true,” Blake nodded. “You might have gotten me killed, otherwise. But at least you got what you needed, right?”

_“At least.”_

“However…I feel as though I need to warn you, Rhys…” Blake folded his arms, resting a finger against his chin. “Because I _do_ remember Nakayama.”

Rhys went deathly still. He felt the ground beneath his feet become unsteady. Timothy remained within earshot, yet listening.

“I have a feeling I know what you’re actually doing. And as a… _friendly_ warning, between colleagues…” Blake met his stare, held it. “Don’t do this.”

Cold uncertainty gripped his chest, but he did not react.

“Let the past lie. For all our sakes.”

Again, he shifted beneath the feeling of Timothy’s eyes boring into the back of his head. Rhys straightened, brushing at the nonexistent wrinkles in his jacket.

“Well, thank you for the advice,” Rhys nodded. “I’ll take it under consideration. Good day, Mister Blake.”

He turned, moving out of the structure and advancing back to the vehicle. By some miracle, he managed to navigate his way back to the passenger side, despite the chaotic swirl in his head and the shaky ground beneath his feet. Timothy remained silent as they walked, obediently returning to the driver’s seat. And when the outrunner roared to life, Rhys cast a final gaze to the shack, where Blake yet stood, unmoving.

Any trace of hostility had fallen away from his stare, and all that remained was concern, in the deeply knit crease of his furrowed brow. It was a clear message, one that left Rhys feeling ill.

_Don’t bring him back._

* * *

  
  
The trip back to the Phoenix had been unsettlingly quiet. Rhys had almost immediately lapsed into a haze, drifting in some distant headspace no doubt caused by Blake’s words. It left Timothy to his own devices, and to his own thoughts, which he was having trouble deciphering.

So Rhys was the reason Helios had been destroyed. And in the very same act, he’d nabbed control of Atlas. It made sense — Timothy recalled Jack bragging once or twice at having secured the defunct corporation’s rights. But as far as he remembered, and as Blake had confirmed, the deed had been in Jack’s office. And if he had his timeline right, Helios had only gone down months _after_ Jack had died.

So what the hell had happened?

A spark of pain rippled through his forehead; Timothy shook off the heavy look of concentration that had formed in his expression. It was a lot like trying to finish a puzzle without all of the pieces. The gaps in the picture left a muddled image, one that had Timothy feeling anxious.

He had dozens of questions. But even after they boarded the ship, and had left Pandora behind, he had trouble voicing his concerns. Thankfully, however, and surprisingly, it was Rhys who broke the silence, some time after Edwards had disappeared into the pod bunks in the back.

“Thank you.”

Timothy lifted his head, gazing across to where Rhys yet stared out into the vast void beyond the windows of the ship.

“Sorry?”

“Blake wouldn’t have given me the tech if not for you,” Rhys cleared his throat, turning his head. “But I regret you had to cross that line to help me.”

 _That line._ To take up his old work, to pretend he was Jack _yet again._

“…it’s okay,” Timothy shrugged, despite evidence to the contrary. “I had to do the same thing for Zane and Mox back at the casino. I hate it, won’t lie, but it comes in handy sometimes… Gotta get _something_ out of looking like this, right?”

Rhys gave a tired smile.

“Still. It meant a lot.”

"To be honest, I was a little wary to intrude," he smirked. "But when I recognized Blake, I knew you'd need all the help you could get. Shrewd businessman, that one."

"You definitely saved my ass out there," Rhys chuckled. "Why'd you call him Jimmy, by the way? Isn't his name Jeffrey?"

"Just something Jack used to do. Not so subtle condescension was his thing. I think it also kept Blake humble, in a weird way. If not bitter as hell."

A soft laugh. Rhys relaxed slightly, slipping back. "Well, it worked like a charm. He was terrified. Again, thank you."

“…you’re welcome.” Timothy shifted in his seat. “So what will you do with the digi-clones, anyway?”

Rhys went quiet once again. He picked at the armrest of his seat, seeming to consider. Before long, he turned the chair, carefully meeting Timothy’s gaze. Their knees bumped, and Timothy’s stomach fluttered.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Tim,” he murmured quietly. “Because I trust you. And because you have the right to know what’s going on.”

Timothy eased back. Took a careful breath. Rhys, too, appeared to brace himself.

“Atlas is built on a series of lies,” he hummed. “As you’ve just heard for yourself.”

“Jack’s deed.”

“Yes. But not just. You see, the tech that I used to produce our advanced systems…”

His words faded away. He shivered, lowering his head. Timothy leaned forward, touched his knee in an effort to be reassuring, and Rhys almost flinched at his gesture, but fell still yet again.

“It was borrowed. Or rather — _inspired_ by something else. It wasn’t innovative. But still, we managed to build an _empire_ off a relic from the past.” He frowned. “And it has given us the resources to encourage research into new avenues. New breakthroughs. But that will only take us so far.”

“So,” Timothy breathed. “The potential of the digi-clones.”

Rhys paused. Nodded. Timothy sank back.

It was a lot to absorb. But it connected some dots in his head. And Timothy fully believed it, could see it in the tight lines of Rhys’ face. It also explained everything that had been troubling Rhys for the past while — the need to keep his company afloat, ahead of the competition. He knew all too well how stressful the job could be, having only had to deal with a fraction of what Jack took on back in the day.

“Do you think Blake will do anything to undermine your efforts?” Timothy asked.

“No, I don’t,” Rhys sighed. “He was never one to rock the boat. It’s how he survived this long, I think. Kept his head down. Did his job. Kept his mouth shut.”

That much was true. Blake was one of the few people that Jack kept around simply because he did what he was told, and never argued. He’d always been interested in self preservation.

“So. You got what you wanted, right?” Timothy smiled. “Everything’s okay?”

Rhys’ brows pinched together.

“…yeah. I think so.”

“So — cause for celebration, then?”

Rhys lifted his head with a frown before following Timothy’s gaze to the console at his elbow. A collection of various liquors rested here, something that had gone noticeably untouched for the duration of their trip. He hadn’t exactly been planning on making such a suggestion, but Rhys clearly needed to unwind.

And, well, maybe Zane had been right. _Yet again._

Rhys’ eyes lingered on a chilled bottle of champagne. A wary smile skirted across his lips.

“…yeah,” he chuckled, reaching for the bottle. “I suppose so.”

* * *

  
  
Goddamn, the chairs in Rhys’ office were comfy. It was nothing like Jack’s office — where visitors were forced to either stand, or to sit in something purposefully stiff, while Jack lounged happily in his overstuffed throne. Timothy sank back into the plush seat, smirking into his fingers as the CEO gestured wildly while pacing around his desk.

“I’m telling you, he was _obsessed,”_ Rhys rambled on. “I mean, I know he was in charge of acquisitions, but this went far beyond. He was dead set on us being _friends._ But the way he said it… It was so _creepy.”_

“Well, you did say he wanted to _merge_ with you.”

Rhys stopped pacing. His expression contorted with disgust, and he immediately lifted his glass to down the rest of the colourless liquid inside.

“Fuck,” he gasped, drawing a deep breath. “Thank goodness Zane finished him off.”

“I feel like having an obsessive corporate stalker means you arrived,” Timothy prodded. “It’s a rite of passage, or something. You shoulda seen how many people were that crazy about Jack. Do you remember Jackentine’s day?”

“No,” Rhys insistently shook his head. “And I _definitely_ don’t have a pair of Jackentine’s day socks stashed somewhere. Totally.”

Timothy snorted with laughter. “Hey…if it makes you feel better…they were probably based on _me._ Jack never wasted his time posing for shit like that.”

He bit his tongue. Probably best not to go into deal about the sort of things Jack made him do.

Rhys fell still at the admission. He frowned, staring into his empty glass.

“Hey, Tim… what would you say if I asked you to do a job… but it might be something you won’t like?”

Despite a brief rush of uncertainty, Timothy straightened.

“Who’s the target?”

When no immediate reply came, Timothy lifted his head, blanching upon noticing Rhys watching him with wide eyes.

“Rhys?”

“I, uh…didn’t mean…” he frowned. “You’d do that?”

Timothy exhaled softly, giving Rhys a defeated look. “What do you think I did for Jack, Rhys?”

He wasn’t certain if it was the alcohol, or his steadily progressing relationship with Rhys, but he found it was becoming easier to mention Jack’s name aloud. Neither of them reacted anymore, as if both of them had been exhausted at tiptoeing around the subject.

And if they could talk _Jack_ together, really, they could talk about _anything…_

“…ah, well…” Rhys furrowed his brow. “That’s fair. But not what I wanted you to do.”

“Well, then I doubt I’ll have much trouble with it,” Timothy smiled softly.

“Did you kill a _lot_ of people, back in the day?”

Timothy spied a flush of red in Rhys’ cheeks, and his smile stretched into a grin. He pushed out of his chair, hazarded a couple steps around his desk, into a proximity that was beyond _employee_ and bordered on _friendly,_ or something else entirely.

“You could say that,” he said with a slight growl curling in his chest. Rhys’ Adam’s apple visibly bobbed at his approach; he backed up so that his ass pressed against his desk. “Bandits. Assassins. Corporate execs. You name it.”

Timothy reached out, resting his cybernetic hand on the desk next to Rhys’ hip. The Atlas CEO almost shuddered.

“…if things had worked out differently…if he was still around, and gave you the order…” Rhys carefully met his gaze. “Would you have killed _me?”_

 _What?_ Timothy’s lips parted in disbelief. He scanned Rhys’ face, wincing in surprise. What the hell kind of question was that? What the fuck had Jack _done_ to him?

There was no good answer that Rhys would believe — not in regards to Jack. So he simply settled on the truth.

“Yes,” Timothy nodded. “Without hesitation.”

At his reply, Rhys’ features shifted into something crestfallen; he turned his head ever slightly to evade Timothy’s gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “But it’s the truth. I was loyal to a fault. And I have…regrets. But that’s just the way things were.”

Rhys nodded weakly. He stared hard at something, nothing, seemingly lost in thought. Timothy’s heart clenched in his chest, his hand twitching against the desk.

“So thank goodness he’s dead, huh?”

Well, shit. It wasn’t as romantic as he’d hoped. But when Rhys again lifted his head, he felt another pang of hope as Rhys pushed off the desk to meet his height.

“Tim—”

A startling alarm from the desk had them both wincing. Timothy sank back a step, finding himself breathless. Rhys similarly checked himself over, brushing at his waistcoat in some embarrassed gesture before reaching forward to stab at the desk interface.

“Yes, Lena?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Strongfork — I meant to let you know that a package had arrived from Prosthetics while you were away.”

Rhys straightened; a smile flickered across his lips. “It’s here.”

The CEO slipped out from under his grasp, nearly tripping off the dais in an effort to move to the executive lounge. Despite the ruined moment, Timothy smiled warmly, flush with a peculiar happiness. Like this was where he belonged.

Perhaps it had to do with Rhys’ effort back on Pandora. When he’d mentioned the contract, Timothy’s mind had stuttered to a halt. He couldn’t even remember Blake’s response, could only stare at Rhys in disbelief and wonder and something akin to _worship_ _._ There were still questions that remained following the exchange with Blake, but that could wait. Especially with the booze still coursing through Timothy’s veins. There was only one thing that compelled him, now.

“Tim!”

His heart palpated. He turned as Rhys came rushing back into the office, but had to jump forward and snag Rhys by the collar when he once again nearly tripped over the dais.

“Settle down, kiddo,” he chuckled.

Rhys shot him a look before setting down the package in his hands, quickly snapping open the clasps. “Your face is here.”

A wash of nausea that had nothing to do with the alcohol flooded his system. Timothy rocked back in uncertainty.

“Ah…what?”

“The grafts.”

Rhys opened the case. There, laid out gently against gel padding, were two pieces of synthetic skin, and a small, handheld device. Timothy’s breath stuttered out.

“Oh… I forgot…”

“You still want to do this?”

Timothy couldn’t help but frown, but when he met Rhys’ gaze, it was hard not to share in the other man’s excitement.

“It won’t bother you?” Timothy murmured. “For me to completely look like Jack?”

“You know, that’s the thing,” Rhys blurted, running fingers through his hair. “It’s weird. When I look at you now, I don’t see him anymore. I mean, on Pandora, you were convincing as heck. But here, when it’s just us…”

Some surprising weight disappeared from Timothy’s shoulders; he subconsciously straightened at the sensation.

“Really?”

“I mean, it’s like actual twins, right?” Rhys continued, almost slurring. “Once you get to know them for their differences, you stop seeing them for their similarities. Which, in your case, is literally only skin deep.”

Timothy blushed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me.”

Rhys gave him a brief look of intense pity before smirking like a shark. “You really gotta stop with the ‘kiddos,’ though. Next time I’m gonna have to give you a smack. Now hold still.”

Obediently, Timothy went rigid, having leaned forward to give Rhys the room he needed to work. When Rhys set to cleaning out the cracks in his mask, he idly wondered if they should wait, if Rhys was even capable of a delicate procedure in his current state. But as the other man lifted the sleeve of fake skin, pressing toward him, he realized immediately that he didn’t care. In fact, it gave him the excuse he needed to settle his hands on Rhys’ hips to steady him, to draw him close.

Rhys gently lined up the graft, slipping it into the grooves of the cracks in Timothy’s mask. As it sank into place, he smiled, then reached back into the package. He brought a heat gun close to Timothy’s face, carefully tracing it along the edges of the replacement skin. After a few moments of silent work, he had succeeded in attaching both grafts, and almost stepped back as if to admire his handiwork.

But Timothy’s hands yet clung to his hips, so instead, he moved forward, squinting in confirmation that the graft had taken.

“There,” he nodded with a smile. “Perfect.”

Timothy swallowed hard. Studied Rhys’ face. “…perfect.”

Rhys’ expression shifted. He set down the heat gun, moved his touch to the crook of Timothy’s elbows. He did not draw away, didn’t even try, so Timothy, flush with encouragement, lifted his arm. His cybernetic slipped along Rhys’ skin, thumb tracing an arc over his cheek. Just as he imagined, he felt so soft, so warm.

So perfect.

Timothy leaned forward. Rhys’ eyes fluttered shut.

His lips felt even better. Tasted like heaven. They folded into the shape of Timothy’s mouth like they were made for each other.

Or, well… made for _Jack’s._

“…Tim.”

_“Mm.”_

Rhys’ hand appeared on his chest. Pushed. Suddenly, they were feet apart. Rhys’ eyes were wide with worry, with terror.

Why terror? Wait, what—

“I’m sorry,” Rhys hiccoughed. “I…I can’t. I…”

“Rhys…” Timothy winced. “Why?”

“I can’t, Tim. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Timothy did not move, did not even blink as Rhys ran out of the room.

Because this — this made sense. This was the life he expected.

The only life he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love making Blake suffer.
> 
> Your comments mean so much, thank you all. I don't get around to replying to each, but I definitely read them, and they inspire me to keep writing this. Thank you.


	6. One Step Closer

It was not abnormal for Rhys to lose himself in the distant, unseen spaces beyond the walls of his penthouse. Even with the light of his holoscreen glowing starkly in the dimly lit space of his private office, he saw nothing, having had long since drifted away past his immediate surroundings. His stare was blind; he remained stock still, mouth ever slightly agape with his head tilted just to the side. It was the state in which he often found himself when considering new projects, able to retreat to the recesses of his mind to work through the complexities of code or the heavy implications of what he sought to achieve next. But more recently, his habit of glazing over in an almost corpse like state was fuelled more by the chaotic mess that was his personal life — something that hadn’t happened in years.

It was almost as if his collective senses had simply dulled enough to give him all the resources he needed  _ just to think. _

Rhys had sequestered himself away in his penthouse for a full five days following the trip to Pandora. He’d felt zero desire to emerge back into public, gripped by uncertainty and hopelessness for which he, alone, was responsible. There was an all consuming feeling of  _ remorse  _ that somehow both paralyzed him and fuelled his intentions.

What had happened with Timothy hadn’t been a surprise. He had always known, always  _ ignored  _ that he had been quietly encouraging the body double. The fleeting touches. Playful exchanges. Replies suggestive of more than a boss/employee relationship. There was a quiet allure that had drawn him into dangerously tempting proximity on more than one occasion. He’d been a willing participant all along.

The question that remained, and that he was having trouble compartmentalizing, was whether his behaviour was due to Timothy being the mirror image of Jack, in the flesh — touchable, present,  _ real  _ — or if it was because he was, well…

Tim. Kind hearted and gentle but somehow resilient and subtly strong  _ Tim. _

This question was what compelled him. It had forced him into the solitude of his home office — the only personal space he had left — to work on the tech he had snagged from Hyperion. For the past work week, he had ignored pings, redirected responsibilities, delegated everything to department heads, and ate very little as he sifted through the code.

The amount of code was harrowing, but the process wasn’t difficult. The foundation, the Digi-Jacks, provided the perfect base from which to begin. The documentation that had come along with the files Blake had provided was also beyond impressive. Rhys had worked on enough projects to be able to glimpse several creators behind the work, subtle distinctions throughout that indicated ownership by not one, but several developers, but it was a series of minor modifications that kept snagging his attention. Comments left behind as if during similarly intense, overnight work sessions by an overworked, exhausted mind. Comments that sounded like  _ Jack.  _

And because of this, he couldn’t help but idly wonder who Jack had been, back then. Before he’d headed Hyperion, before  _ Handsome Jack.  _ When he was a simple code monkey, devoted to his craft, much like Rhys. It was a brief, precious thought, however, one he did his best to push away in the interest of completing his project, but when he first summoned one of the original Digi-Jacks within the confines of his office, the curiosity came roaring back.

For a few moments, Rhys watched with mixed curiosity of the digistruct, wondering why he seemed so peculiar to behold. Then with a sickening gut-punch he realized that not only was the Jack before him  _ incredibly young,  _ he also wasn’t wearing his mask. The face underneath, the face that Rhys had always wondered about — had heard fantastic rumours about — was simply…his. While the construct stood in the centre of the room, still but for the realistic, rhythmic motion around his simulated breathing, Rhys could only stare in awe. He wanted to stand, cross the room, touch him. Just to  _ make sure.  _ But eventually, the Digi-Jack winked out, dissolving beneath the massive power drain required to sustain his form, and Rhys sagged in his seat.

Then he set off on  _ solving  _ that power drain. Along with a few age-progressing updates…and the mask, too.

Finally, when at last his efforts had felt sufficient, it had left Rhys where he was now — sitting in the same chair, staring somewhere into the darkness beyond. Eventually, his holoscreen went dim. His stomach whined petulantly in the foreboding quiet. Rhys, however, could not pull himself from his haze.

It was done.

“Rhys?”

He blinked — painfully, as he realized he hadn’t performed the basic function in some time. His eyes drew across the room, to the door he had left open some time before, and lingered on the silhouette in the space beyond.

Jack’s expression was knit with uncharacteristic concern, and some very characteristic annoyance. He’d been present the past few days, with the exception of the moments Rhys had pointedly closed the door in an effort to test out the digistruct devices, and while he had been quietly supportive of whatever endeavour Rhys had lost himself in, (likely presuming it was all to benefit him, anyway), he hadn’t exactly been happy. Despite the distractions of the project, Rhys had somehow taken note of his frustrated behaviour — the pacing, the lurking in his periphery, the dramatic sighs heard from a different room — but had ignored them in the interest of his code.

And his turbulent thoughts, of course.

Now, however, with nothing left to achieve, a certain, looming moment had arrived.

“Oh, good. You looked like a corpse. Thought you might’ve finally kicked it.”

“Jack.” Rhys frowned. “What’s up?”

“You’re freaking me out, kitten,” Jack growled. “Come out of your damn office for five minutes.”

Rhys’ breath fluttered through his nostrils; he sank further into his seat in resignation.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess I just got lost in this project…”

“I know,” Jack said with a roll of his eyes. “You’re devoted to your work. It’s cute. But it’s also annoying as hell. Especially since you’ve been ignoring me, when you’re my only goddamn source of entertainment.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Rhys had provided enough movies and games to keep Jack occupied for years. But to be fair, Jack had never seemed the type to overindulge in simpler hobbies.

Smiling wryly, Rhys leaned onto his elbows. “Aw. You miss me, Jack?”

“I thought we established that already,” Jack sneered. “Now get your ass out here.”

Rhys chuckled quietly, maneuvering forward onto his feet. It was then that his tailbone cried its protests, and a separate, sharp pinch in his hip yielded the results of the hours he’d spent in the same, crooked position. He fell against the surface of his desk with a yelp, nearly slipping onto his knees.

“Shit,” he hissed, dragging himself up. “Yeah…okay. Time to stretch, I guess.”

The withering gaze Jack had set upon him only darkened. Pushing himself up, Rhys paused long enough to unhook the cables on his desk, collecting the digistruct devices before heading into the next room.

When most times he returned to Jack’s realm of influence, he’d be assaulted by the simulated press of the other man’s body, he was suddenly afforded space indicative of the other man’s quiet tantrum. Jack noticeably kept his distance, hands tucked into the crooks of his elbows as if in a childish pout, and Rhys passed over his behaviour with little thought, moving to the counter. At the same place he’d initiated their previous upgrades, he set down the devices.

“I thought you’d never leave that room,” Jack grunted. “Nice as it is having you home all the time, kitten, it doesn’t mean anything if you’re not exactly  _ present.” _

Rhys shivered, though it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He lifted his head to meet Jack’s stern gaze, feeling a rush of that same instability that had gripped him for the last five days. He quietly moved past Jack’s mention of  _ home,  _ and the warm, fuzzy feelings it invoked, instead opting for at last confronting the heaviness that had taken root in his mind.

“We need to talk, Jack.”

Those words were devastating in any normal relationship, and although they had never defined what existed between them, it seemed to pack a similar punch with Jack. His spine lengthened ever slightly; he lost some of the rigidness of his brow.

“…about what, exactly?”

“About what the fuck it is we’re doing here.”

And the sharp lines of Jack’s expression returned. But he remained silent, giving Rhys the time he needed to take a breath, focus himself, and explain.

“For the last seven years I’ve worked nonstop on building things back up,” he continued. “On trying to live up to a  _ fraction  _ of what you were. And to make up for everything that had happened. I’ve accomplished so much. But it never meant anything, Jack. Not without you.

“Now that you’re here, you’ve given me  _ everything _ that I’d hoped for. But the entire time, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, because we never talked about what happened. We’ve both referenced it — sparingly, jokingly, never committing. That’s a pretty big fucking deal, considering how much it fucked both of us up.”

Jack was stone still. Rhys took a breath.

“Instead of confronting everything that happened, we’ve settled for this weirdly domestic situation where we just coexist like we’re a fucking  _ married couple.” _

At last Jack responded, tilting his head to the side. “And you don’t want that?”

“I  _ do,”  _ Rhys groaned, balking at the question. “You have no idea, Jack… But not if it’s a  _ lie.” _

Again, something flickered behind Jack’s eyes. Some distant consideration of Rhys’ words that Jack kept hidden beyond the mask, kept inside. Feeling as though his efforts were fruitless, Rhys sagged, turning his attention to the devices he’d left on the counter top. It was then that Jack crowded him, sneakers intruding within the same square foot where he stood, and Rhys held his breath.

“What the hell gave you the impression that it’s a lie?”

The resulting flutter of his heart almost forced a moan out of Rhys. He tamped it down, brought his frustration back to the forefront.

“Because of what happened on Helios, Jack,” Rhys murmured. “You tried to  _ kill _ me. And then I  _ actually  _ killed you.”

He lifted his head, careful to meet Jack’s penetrating gaze before continuing.

“How am I supposed to convince myself that you’d want me as more than just a means to an end after all that happened?”

There was a brief break in their exchange as Jack pondered the question. His reaction was noticeably subdued, as though Jack was actually weighing his words, something that both surprised Rhys and had him wondering if his reply would be genuine, or yet another manipulation. Was he  _ actually  _ considering, or calculating? But Jack eventually gave a soft nod, then lifted a hand to stroke Rhys’ cheek. Despite himself, Rhys turned his face into it with a whimper.

“Time,” Jack hummed. “It’s all I got, kitten. I can give you whatever reassurances you need, but I get it — they’re meaningless after what I tried to do to you.”

At a rush of emotion, a wash of something not unlike nausea, Rhys attempted to turn away, but the simulated press of Jack’s fingers insistently held him in place.

“I’ve asked myself the same goddamn thing again and again, Rhysie. And you’re right — this isn’t enough. Not really. But every time I consider the possibilities of  _ next,  _ there’s one consistency in every set of plans that I make.”

The warmth of Jack’s lips pressed against his cheek. Rhys slipped his fingers across Jack’s flanks for comfort.

“It’s not a lie, Rhysie,” Jack muttered at his ear. “I want you. And I don’t plan on letting you go again.”

His confession almost had Rhys’ legs slipping out from below. It was only by his botched attempt to bury his face in Jack’s shoulder, jerking forward past the hologram, that he kept his faculties — kept focused. As lovely and as  _ fulfilling  _ as Jack’s admission was, he wasn’t done.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he breathed. “I’m tired, Jack. I can’t keep lying. Hell, I can’t even keep  _ track  _ of the lies anymore.”

Jack sank back a step, enough to scan Rhys’ face. His expression had darkened; his torso tightened, a ripple of taut muscle down into his forearms that might’ve intimidated Rhys if his form was corporeal. Well,  _ okay, _ it intimidated him regardless.

“Why would you  _ need _ to lie?” Jack asked quietly. “And to whom?”

_ Oh, shit. _

“To everyone,” Rhys answered quickly, giving a frown. “You think I can just make a general announcement that I brought you back? To serve my own selfish needs, no less?”

“And who is everyone?” Jack maintained. “We talkin’ that yolked accountant friend of yours? Who else is problematic in this scenario, Rhysie? I’m gonna need to know if you want my help.”

This time, his reply wasn’t so prompt.

“…this isn’t the point, Jack.”

“Where is this coming from?” Suspicion crackled across Jack’s face. “What happened while you were gone? What scared you into your office for a week?”

“N-nothing,” Rhys stuttered, pressing his ass against the counter. Jack took another step back. “I found something. That’s all. I—”

Well, fuck. Hours spent staring into the wall of his office, and he still somehow came out unprepared. In fact, he was giving Jack everything, absolutely spilling his guts. In his loss of control, he’d also lost any chance at retaining the upper hand, at maintaining the unsteady balance between them. And Jack seemed more than happy to sit back and  _ absorb. _ Although it was masked behind his current demeanour, looking utterly unimpressed with a very telltale eyebrow sharp and high on his forehead.

“I just don’t know how to handle this, Jack,” Rhys gulped. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. It’s too much.”

He leaned back, accidentally elbowing one of the digistruct devices in the process. It clattered noisily on the countertop, and he half expected Jack to hone in on it, to react somehow, but his narrowed gaze remained rigidly locked onto Rhys’ face.

“You’re mistaken, Rhysie,” he stated firmly, in a tone devoid of emotion. “Because I only ever asked you for one thing.”

Rhys held his breath when Jack advanced yet again. His body urged a response —  _ flee  _ — the muscles in his calves tight with intent, but he forced himself still.  _ He can’t hurt you.  _ Yet he couldn’t help the flinch when Jack again lifted his hand, only to feel the sensation of Jack’s thumb sweep across his lower lip. A full body shiver followed, along with the natural urge to despise himself at how instinctively he reacted to Jack’s touch, but only a moan slipped free in a stutter of air.

“I know,” Rhys surrendered with a whine. “But it was never good enough.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t  _ have _ to. I know you well enough by now. How you behave when you’re  _ frustrated.” _

Jack sank back mere inches, an eyebrow raised in query. But then he offered the barest of nods in understanding and agreement.

“…yeah. Okay.”

“So—”

“So you want to know why I haven’t asked about Atlas,” Jack interrupted. “Or Hyperion. Or anything.”

“…yeah,” Rhys tensed. “I mean, some of it made sense. You figured out Atlas almost immediately. But—”

He bit his lip, careful not to admit what he’d discovered in his meeting with Blake. He understood now why Jack had never asked about Hyperion. Rhys had initially,  _ naively _ believed he merely guessed at everything given the glimpses he’d been provided into Rhys’ day-to-day, which was still likely true, to an extent. But with Timothy’s information, he was now aware of the safeguards in place, that had  _ always  _ been in place, that Hyperion would always belong to Jack. It was only a matter of proving that any form of him that managed to return was  _ actually him.  _

“Hyperion wouldn’t have fallen with Helios,” Jack answered. “She was declining after I died, that much was obvious, but there was enough of a foundation in place that she wouldn’t outright collapse. I don’t know what’s still there, but I’ve waited this long to find out, so I can wait a little longer.”

Okay. That made sense—

“I will always have plans, Rhysie. But as long as I’m nothing but a goddamn hologram, I wasn’t planning on pushing. And I’m not biding my time, either, so stop feeling  _ pressured _ and calm your tits.”

Rhys’ lips parted.

“…but you  _ were  _ waiting for me,” he realized. “You always knew I’d try…”

And at last,  _ at last,  _ Jack’s eyes fell onto the device on the counter.

“I had faith in you, kitten.”

“S-so if I’m part of whatever you intend to do,” Rhys swallowed around the tightness of his throat. “What does that mean about us…? About me?”

A thin, somehow frightening and yet  _ delicious  _ smirk slipped across Jack’s face.

“I think you know, Rhysie,” he cooed. “But why don’t you show me your little project, first. Then I can show you  _ exactly  _ what you mean to me.”

Something sizzled and  _ popped  _ inside Rhys’ brain. His motor functions ceased for a moment; he actually  _ would  _ have fallen this time, if it hadn’t been for the counter bracing his back. Then, just as quickly, his senses returned, and he pivoted to reach for the digistruct device, along with the machine still powering Jack’s current form.

“This transition is going to be a little more complicated,” he admitted. “Although it won’t be limited by the AR sensors, it requires a fair bit more power than your current setup. But I think I’ve accommodated for that well enough. Just a matter of—”

“Plug me in, Rhysie,” Jack nodded. “I believe in you.”

It was a marked shift in personality from their last upgrade. If only  _ Rhys _ were so confident. He connected the digistruct device, confirmed with his ECHO-Eye that the upload process auto initialized and sat awaiting his command, but when it came time to trigger everything…

He turned, casting a final gaze over the holographic form of Jack. As if reading his thoughts, or the unease likely etched into his face, Jack stepped forward, slipping his hand along Rhys’ neck. Their lips met in a soft, undemanding press, and Rhys allowed his eyes to flutter shut. 

With some hesitation, he activated the transfer.

Jack’s touch disappeared in an instant. Rhys moaned aloud at its loss, blinking as he gazed around the open room. This was supposed to happen — while the data filtered over, Jack would lose connection with the projection device, pointless as it would soon become. But regardless, Rhys couldn’t help the flutter of worry in his stomach.

As the minutes ticked on, the feeling only grew in strength. His ECHO-Eye eventually alerted him of the completion of the transfer, and still — nothing.

“Jack…?” he hummed, frowning his concerns at empty air.

Jack did not reply, but there came a sharp knock elsewhere in the room. Rhys almost jumped, bending at the sickening feeling that descended in an instant. His eyes fell on the silhouette of the front door, like it was some strange, foreign beast. Here he was, in his own, separate world, where it was always just him and Jack.

And someone else was asking to be let in.

With an involuntary shiver, he crossed over to the door. It drew ajar at a half-hearted tug, and his heart immediately leapt into his throat.

“Rhys.”

Rhys sank back a step, two, flush with a crawling, gnawing horror. His gaze snapped over his shoulder, to where Jack had been standing, but the construct was still nowhere to be seen. A conflicting source of fear rushed through his core, and his mind stuttered to a halt.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Timothy gave him a stern look. “We need to talk.”

“N-no,” Rhys mumbled, hands suddenly clammy. “My office. I—”

“We can’t talk in your office,” Timothy growled in frustration, following him into the room. “Not with that damn open door policy of yours, kiddo. Hell, you don’t even  _ have  _ a door.”

The icy desperation flooding his veins propelled him into action; Rhys reached up, gripping Timothy by the jacket. Timothy’s eyes snapped open as his back met the wall, held pinned under Rhys’ insistent fists.

“Don’t  _ call  _ me that—”

But as overwhelmed, as fearful, as  _ angry  _ as he was, the look was fleeting; his hardened stare slipped into concern. Again, he glanced over his shoulder, only to see nothing.

“Listen. You need to leave.”

Timothy opened his mouth as if to argue, but he remained silent. His gaze drew up over Rhys’ shoulder, passing in search through the room beyond.

“Rhys…” he began, and his voice had dropped in a hush. “Is someone here?”

“That’s none of your business,” Rhys snapped. He released Timothy, gesturing for the door. “Now, please —  _ leave.” _

He remained in place for a moment, scanning the hard lines of Rhys’ expression. Then he gave a slow, unconvinced nod.

“Okay, Rhys,” he uttered. “I’ll go. If you promise we’ll talk later.”

“Yes, fine,” Rhys reached up, snagging his jacket again to hurry him along. “I’ll come find you. Now get  _ out.” _

The door slammed shut. And for a long minute, one that seemed to stretch into a series of long, agonizing minutes, he leaned against his palms on the door, vision screwed up in the faux wood grain of the surface beneath his hands. A cool sweat had begun to trickle down past his shoulder blades, but as he waited…nothing happened.

“…Jack?”

Silence. Deafening, foreboding silence.

What if his programming had been faulty? What if he had corrupted something, had torn Jack’s codebase to shreds, had doomed him to another endless turn in the void? Or worse…

_ What if he had heard everything? _

Rhys slowly, carefully turned, pressed his spine to the door. He lifted his head, giving the room a thorough scan, and came up empty. His stomach turned over.

“Well, well, kitten…”

And then Jack was  _ there.  _ He filled Rhys’ senses, pressed him into the door, crushed him beneath his prying, overwhelming presence. Rhys whimpered, squeezed his eyes shut, gave a delirious moan as he withered beneath Jack’s shape. He tugged at the stiff grip around his wrists that were somehow suddenly high above his head.

“Please, Jack,” Rhys whimpered. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just…”

“How did you find Tim?”

Rhys nearly bit through his tongue. “You knew it was Tim?”

Above him, Jack rolled his eyes. “Tim’s not  _ just _ a body double, Rhysie. I knew him better than any of the others. But you—”

He winced at the touch of Jack’s palm against his cheek.

“You picked him up for yourself, I see. Was that  _ before _ you woke me up, or after?”

“B-before,” Rhys choked. “But only just. I—”

“Before,” Jack parroted, grinning wolfishly. “So. Still burned for the real deal after taking the demo for a test run, eh, Rhysie?”

“What!? Tim and I never—”

“Don’t  _ bullshit  _ me, kitten,” Jack hissed. His hand slipped down to conform around Rhys’ neck, slotting perfectly against the notched shape of his windpipe. “What did you let him do to you, huh? Did you get on your back for  _ him?” _

“No!” Rhys snapped, as fear was replaced with something else, something primitive. His reply briefly rose with a shout. “Fuck you, Jack!”

“No, no, Rhysie.”

Jack turned, striding toward the living room. Rhys cried out in alarm, wrist yet caught in Jack’s grip. But despite the thick, curling heat in Jack’s reply, Rhys immediately understood that he wasn’t trying to hurt him. In fact, he didn’t sound angry at  _ all,  _ voice thick with intention that never failed to send a jolt to Rhys’ dick _.  _ It was then,  _ finally,  _ that the connections in his mind slipped into place. Jack was  _ actually pulling him across the room.  _ It was  _ Handsome Jack  _ standing there in his home, in full, living colour.

And then he was against the sofa, almost bent in half over the padded back. The air rushed out of his lungs.

“Y’see, it’s important you hear me out on this.” Jack’s hands reappeared, slicking up Rhys’ sides. Rhys could’ve swore he heard someone moan when Jack pressed against him from behind, realizing after a delayed moment that it was  _ him. _ “You woke me up for a reason, kitten. And I’m game, believe me. But I don’t  _ share,  _ and old Timmy there is a problem.”

“Jack…”

The warmth of Jack’s chest leaned over him, slotting against his spine. Rhys choked, shivering in delight and unease.

“So tell me. Did he put his fucking  _ hands  _ on you?”

“Y-yes,” Rhys croaked. “I mean — just a kiss. That’s all, Jack, I promise. I’m only y-yours.”

Jack stiffened. His hands halted against his flanks.

“…say that again.”

Rhys froze, still adrift in some nightmare fantasy, unsure of what he’d even admitted. “What?”

When Rhys hazarded a gaze over his shoulder, Jack was staring back at him, expression dark with intent.

“Who do you belong to?”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

_ “…you, _ Jack,” Rhys hummed, at last grasping onto Jack’s meaning. His body flushed with the knowledge; his cock jumped in his slacks. “I’m yours, Jack. All yours.”

Fingers threaded through his hair, forcing him awkwardly down against the sofa. He let out a quiet “fuck” in response.

“Yeah, kitten. And don’t you forget it.” Jack’s free hand slipped around his hips, snagging onto his belt buckle. “Now we’re gonna have to have a chat about Tim. But for now… You’re gonna prove your loyalty to me.”

Rhys gave his consent in a heated moan. Jack returned the sentiment with a chuckle, and rather insistent fingers that stripped him of his belt in a slick twist. When his massive hands appeared again on his hips, Rhys could only marvel at their size where they enveloped him completely. He briefly dropped his head to give those thick fingers a glance in appreciation and no minor amount of trepidation, following the movement of Jack’s thumb across the curve of his hip.

Then, briefly, his mind flipped back to Jack’s form — and the remaining limitations.

“Wait, are you even equipped?” Rhys frowned. “Can we—”

Jack cut him off with a snap of his hips, and a very suggestive grind against his ass. Rhys’ response was little more than a mewl of strained lust, words collapsing under a rush of  _ oh good god  _ and the dizzying press of Jack’s cock. He was  _ thick, _ already tight in his jeans, and it dawned on Rhys at the barely coherent edges of his mind that this meant something both wonderful and hilarious.

The Digi-Jacks had  _ always  _ been packing.

Rhys silently grinned this epiphany into the padding of the sofa, only for it to slip into an open mouthed gasp as Jack again rocked against his ass. Jack’s fingers down his flanks had a similar effect, dragging free a lecherous groan that baffled even Rhys.

“Been real nice feelin’ you up on the sofa, kitten,” Jack admitted, preemptively breathless. “But this —  _ this  _ is what I’ve been waiting for.”

The series of revelations Rhys was experiencing regarding Jack’s intentions for him had his head spinning. His legs turned to jelly; he grabbed uselessly at the sofa in a shaky attempt to keep himself aloft, only to feel a heavy palm knead along each notch of his spine. Once at his collar, Jack jerked him upright, and Rhys almost cried out in strangled delight at the press of the other man’s broad chest to his back. A second hand appeared at his hips, tugging his shirt free in exploration of the soft muscle beneath.

“Please, Jack,” Rhys started — fully aware that it was only the first of several times he’d be caught begging Jack that night. “Wanna feel you. I—”

Jack easily prevented him from turning; a wide hand clutching his pec locked him in place.

“Soon, kitten,” Jack promised, panting lightly at his ear. “I just need to…”

The word  _ touch  _ went unspoken, but Jack’s hands spoke volumes. His fingers drifted across every reachable contour of Rhys’ body, gliding along lines of muscles and across the divots of his hips. He pulled and grasped and groped and Rhys let his head fall back on Jack’s shoulder to sip in frantic breaths of air at the worship of Jack’s embrace.

He already knew Rhys’ frame, almost in its entirety. But the physical presence — the fact that Rhys' skin now  _ yielded  _ to the pressure of his touch seemed to push Jack’s senses into overload.

Suddenly, they were moving. It was an oddly graceful pivot away from the couch; Rhys turned to wrap his arms around Jack’s broad shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck, biting, laving, while Jack’s hands continued their search of  _ something, everything.  _ They barely made it halfway down the hallway before Jack snagged him yet again, backing him against the wall. Their frantic, passionate fumbling knocked several frames to the ground, which Rhys didn’t even notice as his shoulders inched their way up the drywall. His legs wrapped around Jack’s hips, canting with the press of Jack’s insistent grind.

Rhys’ fingers slipped through Jack’s hair, tugged at his shoulders, grasped at his frame as the older man thrusted against him from below. His head rocked back, brows pinched in desire and need. He wasn’t certain how they’d even made it to his room, but before he could even react, Jack was dropping him onto the edge of the bed. It was difficult to let Jack go, but he managed with a whine of complaint, if only to drop his hand to his own, strained cock to palm against the material of his slacks.

Through the dim lighting of the room, Rhys found Jack standing at the edge of the bed, cradled between Rhys’ knees. His gaze traced over Rhys’ chest, burning with intention. The predatory look that had set into Jack’s mask had Rhys shivering under his scrutiny.

“Jack,” Rhys murmured, allowing his head to sink back into the sheets below. “Need you. Please.”

“I’m here, kitten.”

In Jack’s holographic form, undressing was a fair enough spectacle. He would remove his jacket and discard it into the darkness behind him, where it would disappear in a bizarre crackle of light as if by magic. But this Jack —  _ tangible  _ Jack — his clothes slumped in a strangely miraculous pile on the floor as he stripped each layer free, a heap of material that enamoured Rhys with the possibilities and impossibilities of digistruct tech. His eyes, however, remained firmly locked onto Jack’s shape, as the flesh beneath those ridiculous layers at last emerged in the dim, blue lighting of the room.

Jack was densely muscular, padded only by a small, soft pouch around his abdomen that was endearing in its own peculiar fashion. He was  _ thick  _ in all the right ways, so obviously strong; his tanned skin looked so deliciously firm, dotted with sparse freckles and a myriad of scars that Rhys scanned so fervently that he had to remind himself just to blink, while simultaneously fighting the jaw-tightening urge to rut into his own hand.

“Rhys,” Jack chuckled. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but if you don’t get those clothes off  _ now,  _ I’m going to tear them off of you.”

“Tempting offer,” he purred back, biting at his lower lip. “But they  _ were  _ pretty expensive.”

An affronted snort ripped free from Jack’s lungs; his eyes narrowed.

“Alright. Have it your way, kitten.”

Jack clambered over the bed before Rhys could fight back, settling his bulk over Rhys’ hips. Pinned, Rhys whimpered at the press of Jack’s cock through the material of his slacks, craning his head back in delirious need. He barely noticed the flick of buttons being ripped free until the cool air of the room descended over his bare chest, followed close behind by Jack’s tongue that slipped along the lines of his tattoo.

“Jack,” he pouted, glancing toward the half shredded garment that Jack was tugging free from beneath his back. “I was  _ serious.” _

“So was I,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Rhys leaned back with a groan, palming his eyes, when he felt the same material of his shirt slip around his wrist. In the next motion, his arms were wrenched over his head, snapping into place together where Jack had expertly tied his shirt around his forearms. Rhys lowered his gaze, catching Jack’s mischievous grin with a look of uncertainty.

“Now, you’re gonna keep your arms up there for me, okay, Rhysie? No touching yourself,” Jack ordered, leaning forward to smother him under a heavy kiss. “You’re gonna wanna hold on.”

His boxers and slacks, already having been halfway down his hips, slipped off with a simple jerk. A red blush crossed his cheeks and he turned his head to hide his face against his shoulder. Jack had already seen him naked, obviously, but there was something humbling about being restrained in his own bed with his erection painfully bobbing in the air, untouched, unheeded. Precum oozed in soft droplets down his head, an uncomfortable warmth in the cool air.

“Hope you’re ready for me to fuck the sass out of you,” Jack warned, growling his promise.

Despite the fantastic curl in his groin, the way Jack’s words set his skin aflame, Rhys still managed to tilt his head and groan—

“You can try…”

A chuckle. Then hot fingers slipped onto his flesh, gently cradling the head of his cock. Rhys bucked in response, crying his shock aloud, and Jack’s hand appeared on his hip to hold him still.

“Indeed.” The smirk was evident in his voice; Rhys ignored it in exchange for the now lubricated grip dancing down his shaft. Jack’s touch was not gentle, had never been, but the pressure around his length was perfectly tight, just this side of painful. Rhys craned his neck back, a silent surrender to the overwhelming intoxicant that was Jack’s touch. All of the synapses in his brain lit up at once, a chorus of nerves dedicated to  _ Jack, finally, Jack.  _

The hand on his hip disappeared; a prodding finger slipped along his lips. Rhys immediately dropped open his jaw, granting entry to the thick digits that slid forward and crowded his tongue. Jack slowly drew his hand in and out of Rhys’ mouth, a thick, unyielding sensation that almost triggered his gag reflex, but it happened that the older man was just as eager. Fingers coated in saliva, Jack lowered his hand to where its partner yet pumped away at Rhys’ cock, swiping a wet strip down his perineum.

Rhys again writhed uncontrollably at the touch; his balls tightened in heated anticipation as Jack’s fingertip rounded his tight, clenched muscles. He instinctively dropped his hands, carded his grip through Jack’s perfect hair, only for the wonderful movements on his dick to cease.

“Ah, ah,” Jack chided, glowering up at him. “Hands above your head, Rhysie. I mean it.”

“Nooo,” Rhys groaned. “Please, Jack—

A finger pressed its way inside, straight to the knuckle, and Rhys swallowed his complaints. Jack forced it deep, allowing the pad of his finger to knead intense pressure as it slipped along, and Rhys clenched around the digit in delicious, writhing desire.

_ “Fuck.” _

He had expected a retort, some breathless chuckle on Jack’s behalf, but nothing came. Jack was on his knees now, free hand wrapped around Rhys’ leg where it rested against his shoulder, the other still sunk into Rhys. The dim lighting of the room cast sharp, angular shadows across Jack’s mask, but even in the gloom, Rhys could make out the look of focus, yearning. Jack’s lips were parted, breath moving past in a hiss as he leaned forward to grind against the mattress in his own matched desire.

A second finger. Rhys’ hands clamped tightly to the bedspread, almost tearing at the material in a frenzied attempt to obey, to remain still. By the time the third finger forced its way through, he’d hidden his face beneath his arm, biting at his flesh as his muscles strained and flexed and burned at Jack’s insistent touch.

“Okay, kitten.”

Rhys inhaled slowly, turning his head at Jack’s voice. His knees were bent, raised in the air, and perfectly outlined the broad shape of Jack’s shoulders. The sight of Jack between his legs, hand half buried inside of him, sent a vicious shiver through his core. He tightened on Jack’s fingers, and Jack growled in response; the hand yet cradling Rhys’ thigh traced lines over his skin as his nails dug trenches.

“You ready?” Jack panted. “I can keep going, but…”

Below the sharp creases of Jack’s mask, a red flush crossed his skin, across the ridges of his ears and around his throat. His brow furrowed intensely, focused and determined. All of the muscles in his forearms and shoulders were taut, as if primed and just waiting to be set free.

It was  _ need,  _ in every possible way that Jack could convey it without words. And such an impossible sight only pushed Rhys closer to the edge.

“Yes,” he gasped, despite the remnants of pain at the stretch. “Yes, for fuck’s sake." 

A chuckle — but loose, breathless. Jack was careful to withdraw his fingers before easing back on his knees to remove the rest of his clothing. Rhys allowed himself to lower his arms to his sides, enough to sit up on his elbows and watch, and as Jack at last drew himself free from the waistband of his underwear, straining and thick in his own oversized palm, Rhys felt the saliva thicken in his mouth.

“Jack,” he hummed, tearing his eyes away only to meet the other man’s hungry gaze. “Need you…I…”

He seemed to lack the words, but Jack was forgiving. A small smirk crossed his mask, and he moved forward, pressing a heated kiss to the inside of Rhys’ knee as he positioned himself at the end of the mattress.

“Gonna need a higher bed, kitten,” Jack grinned into his thigh. “If I’m gonna get the proper leverage to fuck you right. But this’ll do for now…”

Rhys snapped his head back at the press of Jack’s cock against his ass. He was half tempted to activate his ECHO-Eye right then and there to place the order. Resisting the temptation, he merely returned his hands overhead to snag the blanket. “…I’ll make a note.”

It didn’t feel exactly right — his touch lacked the friction of real skin, the burning resistance. But it somehow still felt  _ amazing, intoxicating, perfect, perfect, perfect,  _ as the head of Jack’s cock pressed just inside, girth already promising the pain and pleasure to come. And Rhys was ready; all he wanted was to be filled, to feel all of Jack, all the way to the hilt. When Jack at last buried himself inside, the effort ripped free a startling exhale that Rhys hadn’t known he had been holding. But their groan was simultaneous, almost harmonic, a mutual cry into the barest space remaining between their bodies. Rhys’ hips angled sharply against the bedspread; he curled his spine to press his weight onto his shoulders and take Jack in deeper.

_ “Shit.” _

There was little more he could do than hold onto the bed for dear life. Jack continued to thrust into him like a man possessed, chasing a long-craved satisfaction that had desperately clung to them both. Rhys surrendered to it, to the years of dreaming,  _ wishing, _ an ashamed secret that pushed him to climax many times in the very same bed. He would always fear Jack, but this — this was  _ stronger.  _ Jack grunted and hissed and rutted into him with unyielding force and Rhys struggled to keep his head above water.

Jack’s hands found his hips, digging thumbs into the crook of his pelvis. He drove deeper, as deep as was possible, before bending forward to again pause, catch his breath. Rhys, thankful for the pause, almost collapsed beneath him, gazing about listlessly as if to recover his scattered mind.

“…so  _ long,” _ Jack crooned suddenly, and Rhys was so lost in the heated battle of fighting back a preemptive climax that he had trouble understanding what he meant. “You have no idea, Rhysie. So  _ goddamn _ long.”

Rhys allowed his head to sink back in the brief reprieve to just breathe, to calm the rapid thudding against his ribcage. The pressure in his groin eased, but only just; his cock remained untouched and strained between them, sweating beads of precum.

“Felt like a century,” Jack continued, seemingly lost to a constant state of delirium. “Years and  _ years _ of wanting. Of craving.”

Finally, the words clicked. Rhys lifted his head, only for the sight of Jack to send a vicious pulse to his cock that almost had him over the edge in an instant.

Jack — rippling, muscular,  _ scarred  _ Jack — gripping Rhys’ flanks with some kind of possessive mania. His hair hung loosely, unkempt, locks dangling over eyes that burned only with intent, narrowed onto Rhys’ sweat slicked frame below. He panted just as heavily, but his mouth was somehow set. Determined. Rhys writhed under his stare, wanting desperately to free his hands and pump his straining dick under Jack’s watch. He could feel Jack still inside him, the tip of his cock nudged just beyond that tensed ring of muscle.

“Jack,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“…you became my fixation, Rhys,” Jack ignored him. “My reason. I had to destroy you. To claim you. You, Rhys…were a trophy. And for all those years, I couldn’t figure out if you were the kind that went on my wall, or belonged on my dick.”

Rhys gasped in air, clawing at the sheets overhead. Jack bent forward, chuckling softly — menacingly — in the darkness.

“…but now we know, don’t we, kitten?” he purred. “You were  _ made  _ for my cock.”

Jack tugged sharply at Rhys’ thighs as he thrusted inside, snapping his hips flush with Rhys’ ass. Rhys’ mind broke in half; his mouth gaped in a mix of pain and pleasure and  _ holy fuck.  _ He came immediately, spewing thick cum across his chest in heavy, heated spurts. And all he could do in response, as he felt Jack pick up the pace, incessantly rocking his thick flesh inside, was cant his hips to meet every delicious pump.

The digistruct shimmered, a quick flash of blue over the simulated colour, and Jack seized. His grip became tight; he gave a final slam into Rhys, and his face screwed up with some heavy look of concentration and domination that had Rhys wishing he had held out for just a moment longer.

But here — in the undulations of his post-climax haze, he could  _ watch  _ Jack, as the older man released his thighs, pressed hands into the bedspread and dangled his head. His shoulders tensed and shook as he simply breathed, inches above Rhys’ abdomen that was still sticky with ejaculate.

For minutes after, all that could be heard was their mutual panting. Rhys managed to free his intense grip from the bedspread, a little afraid to look back and see what damage he did to the mattress, but a surprising fatigue began to settle almost instantly, demanding sleep, demanding  _ recovery.  _ While it hadn’t lasted, mostly due to their combined insistence and need to fulfill that long unfulfilled desire, it had been a long time since Rhys had gotten laid at all, much less fucked so hard and deep that he wasn’t certain how he was going to make it to the bathroom to clean up, or even haul himself out of bed the next day.

It turned out the former concern was pointless, as he felt the wet slap of a cloth hit his flank. Jack had left him briefly, long enough to have silently padded to the bathroom and back, and was insistently pushing him onto his side as he climbed his way into bed to join him. Rhys chuckled, cleaning himself off before discarding the cloth onto the floor, and scooted back into the shell of Jack’s larger frame.

It was tempting, he realized, not to return to work at all. To remain there, in the silky folds of his bed, drifting between sleep and sex and  _ Jack  _ until he was broken and bruised and nothing remained.

But yet again, he felt a nudge at the back of his mind. A reminder of the things that were missing. The slick, warm heat of saliva. The press of perspiration. The warmth of Jack filling him, in more ways than one. The Digi-Jack form had met their primal needs far beyond what the tugging of the simulation centres of his brain ever could, but once again, Rhys met a wall. He needed more. He needed  _ Jack. _

Where could that possibly take them now?

Jack shifted against his back, tugging him close, and the troubling thoughts drifted away.

“You did good, Rhysie,” Jack purred at his ear. “Proud a’ you, kitten.”

Lips pressed against the tattoo of his neck, and Rhys melted, surrendering to the heady intoxicant that was Jack’s praise.

“You were perfect.”

* * *

  
  
Timothy had lingered briefly just beyond the front door of Rhys’ penthouse, head in a terrifying spin. When he had arrived, he was so uncertain of what it was he was even doing. The devout Atlas CEO, who was so often found in his office that Timothy wondered why he had a separate home at all, hadn’t shown up for work in days. There had been quiet murmuring, office gossip amongst Rhys’ colleagues about what had swept him away so suddenly, and Timothy loyally kept his mouth shut. He had the digi-tech now. He was probably busy turning it into something useful — the next big project, as he had mentioned.

But he had a feeling it had more to do with their fumbling, heated moment days before.

He’d been conflicted about the exchange, lost in the delirium and doubt it had cast over his mind. It was difficult to ignore the initial sting of rejection, the look on Rhys’ face when he fled the office. But it didn’t take long for it to slowly occur to Timothy, seeping in past the haziness that was a result of the champagne that night, that Rhys had  _ kissed him back.  _ Hell, he’d drawn him closer, grasping fistfuls of his jacket.

So why had he left? Was there a separate complication, a secret of Rhys’ personal life that he had yet to share? Or had Timothy incorrectly assumed that they had moved beyond the burden that was his face?

He tried in quiet desperation to ignore it for the following days, to let it somehow resolve itself once their normal interactions resumed, but when Rhys never reappeared, the nagging feeling took hold. Timothy had taken to pacing his personal suite outside of work hours, drifting through the tension of his thoughts. Eventually, it brought his path to Rhys’ door.

Now, however, he regretted everything. Now, he realized, he could no longer ignore the secrets of their pasts. He’d been willing to look beyond Rhys’ history with Hyperion, to assume their mutual trauma meant that they were similarly damaged, and nothing more. But no longer.

Because there  _ was  _ someone in the penthouse with Rhys. And though most of their conversation was impossible to make out, muffled beyond the thick front door, in a brief moment of anger, Rhys’ voice has risen above the rest.

_ Fuck you, Jack. _


	7. Do Androids Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hasn't been proofread yet, so please ignore any inconsistencies or spelling/grammatical issues in the meantime. Your comments have just been so lovely that it's hard to keep it stashed away.

Heels dug into the sand, leaned forward to set his knees onto his elbows, Timothy rested. He breathed slowly, caught in a quiet, forced meditation that had long ago formed as an unfortunate habit following the completion of every successful op, when he was afforded a brief amount of time to simply sit, to _fester_ . He watched the horizon, eyes lingering on the columns of smoke in the distance as he sat on the outcropping of rock, allowing his pistol to dangle loosely in his grip, while fatigue nudged at his mind and general discomfort tugged at his muscles. He embraced every lance of pain, every stitch in his side, for they were a distraction from the things he had done, and a reminder that he was still alive. Still alive, and one day closer to freedom from his contract, from Hyperion, from _Jack._

“Nice work down there, kiddo.”

All at once, his collective calm dissipated. He obediently, albeit begrudgingly lifted his head to witness Jack’s arrival, following the foreboding president making his way to the cliff’s edge to assess the damage far below. Timothy’s eyes flickered to the narrow ledge between Jack’s feet and open air — _just one push, that’s all it would take._ Yet he remained sitting, resigned to his fate. He had never had the strength, would never. And when he met Jack’s gaze, he realized with a cool, disturbing rush that Jack knew it, too.

“No survivors,” Jack smirked, gesturing to the burning settlement beyond. “And wrapped up in under an hour. Colour me impressed.”

Well, it was more than the backhanded compliment to which he was normally accustomed, but it somehow still felt disingenuous, coming from Jack. Timothy offered a shrug, casting his attention to the ground beneath his sneakers.

“Wasn’t difficult. They didn’t exactly have strong defensives in place. And it was what you ordered.”

“And you continue to deliver, Tim Tams,” Jack grinned. “That’s my boy.”

Timothy felt his trigger finger seize up; his body instinctively tensed as Jack came close. But when beckoned, he could only rise, knowingly straightening for Jack to look him over. Timothy followed his motions, turning his head as Jack swiped a streak of blood from his cheek.

“There’s one more camp nearby,” he hummed. “Then you can take a few days off. You’ve earned it.”

“Bandits?” Timothy asked with a wince.

“I mean, yeah,” Jack snorted, like it was obvious. “They’re all bandits, cupcake. This is Pandora.”

“There were children down there.” Timothy’s voice slipped out in a whimper. “Civilians. Women and men just—”

Jack’s hand found his chin, gripped tight. Timothy shrank under his touch, only able to grab onto his shoulders for support.

“Just _what,_ kitten?” Jack grunted, scanning his face in a terrifyingly tight look. “Are we gonna have to have another chat? Are you slipping again?”

“No, Jack,” Timothy croaked. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Tim,” Jack’s expression hardened into something dark, with the taunting edge of a grin. “I watched the feeds. You enjoyed yourself down there. Like you always do.”

Timothy relented, squeezing his eyes shut. He would never enjoy killing innocents, but it was overshadowed by the act of killing itself, of losing himself to the hunt. It was a shameful surprise that he’d never been able to shake or accept, something that had been sparked by the events on Elpis, stirring a burning desire within him that he never before knew existed. And now, his work was bittersweet, a conflict of the utterly intoxicating _rush_ as a byproduct of the terrible deeds he was forced to carry out.

He never felt more alive than when he felt the satisfying _click_ of a trigger. And if he happened to be picturing Jack’s face on the other end of that gun, then, well, all the better. But he’d never admit it aloud.

“Yeah,” he answered, when Jack continued to stare. “Maybe.”

“Atta boy,” Jack smiled. “It’s better to accept it, trust me. Embrace your killer instinct, kiddo.”

A thumb swiped along Timothy’s lower lip, the same that had slicked away the unidentified blood on his cheek. He grimaced, twisting away, but Jack drew him closer, chuckling at his ear. Timothy initially stiffened at the proximity, but despite them both having, well, _flexible_ inclinations, Jack had never crossed that line with him. He’d come close, teased at it, but as arrogant a man as he was, not once had he bent the body double over his desk to have his way. No, Jack was far more efficient at fucking with Timothy’s mind than anything else.

“Tell you what,” Jack tilted his head. “How about a new assignment. Something different.”

“Different.” His reply was hollow, but for a hint of skepticism.

“That’s right. No more killing, no more bandits.”

Timothy frowned, eyes widening. “That sounds…great, actually.”

Too good to be true.

“Of _course_ it sounds great,” Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m being friggin’ generous here, cupcake.”

“Would be nice,” Timothy nodded. “Take it a little easier until my contract is up.”

He should have known better. Timothy had a list — thoughts that should never be uttered in Jack’s presence. In fact, the moment the words slipped past his lips, he went rigid, noticing that Jack, too, went deadly still.

“You thinkin’ of leaving me, Tim Tams?”

Timothy drowned beneath Jack’s shape, surrendering to the grip around his throat and the fingers clawing their way up the back of his skull. Head wrenched backward, he gasped a breath, allowing his pain to escape in a very audible cry between his body and Jack’s, where the older man leaned forward to breathe heat against his face. Jack inundated his basic senses, becoming all that he could hear, see, feel.

“You wouldn’t do that, now, would you?’’

“No,” Timothy hissed. “I’m not strong enough.”

“Oh?” Amusement curled like ice in Jack’s voice.

“I _would_ run,” he replied, feeling a click in his esophagus under the other man’s palm. “Just like I would press this pistol to your chin and pull the trigger until there was nothing left inside. Like I would smother out your life and drag your corpse to an abyss beyond which no one would mourn your loss, where you would only know all the torment and suffering you forced upon this world, and remember in your last, terrible moment that _I_ was the one who put you there. But no — I’m not strong enough, Jack.”

For a horrid, deafening few seconds, Timothy wasn’t sure if his words had actually been muttered. Jack studied the lines of his face, expression shifting with imperceptible weight, giving nothing in return. Timothy nearly broke, feeling his grip on the pistol loosen, but then Jack closed the remaining distance, grinning darkly against his cheek.

“That’s what I love about you, Tim Tams. That’s what makes you so goddamn loyal. And _that,_ kitten…”

Jack’s hand appeared on his face, thumb carving a hard path of pressure in an arc over his mask where that painful, writhing mark of spoiled flesh ran underneath.

“Is why I’m _never_ letting you go.”

* * *

  
  
Jack’s eyes flickered open to the dim light of Rhys’ bedroom. He hadn’t been sleeping — _couldn’t_ — but had allowed himself to lapse into a half active state, where only his mind ran rampant through his simulated form. Various memory fragments had been summoned at random, flashes of Nakayama, Angel, Lilith, _Tim,_ but it had all been fleeting.

He had tried to stand, to leave, some hours before, to wander the penthouse in a test of his latest limitations, but he hadn’t gotten far beyond pulling his clothes on before dropping back onto the bed. And the entire time, his consciousness had drifted, feeling a tugging at his code from various directions. His body had flickered, dimmed, drawn back together under careful concentration, and while he initially considered that the digistruct shape might have some bugs to work out, he quickly realized it wasn’t that.

No, he’d already felt hints of it, when he fucked Rhys into the bed like some feral beast. Reaching his climax while buried to the hilt inside of the other man had sparked a surprising ripple effect through his synapses that he hadn’t anticipated, nor enjoyed. The intense rush of pleasure, of satisfaction, of _"fucking finally!”_ had rocked his core — had been friggin’ _awesome,_ honestly — but the various receptor nodes of his mind had briefly scattered in response.

Fear had followed. The sensation had been a familiar one, after all — like when he’d awoken in the dingy maintenance room where the ECHO-Eye had been hidden away for so long, mustering all of his strength to remember who he was, _how_ he was. He was _Handsome Jack,_ and, wait, who the fuck was that again? And oh — _Rhysie._

Rhys, the one to finally destroy the last remnants of Jack. Rhys, who’d torn himself apart simply to be free of the monster inside. Rhys, the reaper.

His entire goddamn world.

Jack nearly snarled aloud in the crisp quiet of the room, wincing as the colour of his body briefly faded before snapping back to normal. A power drain, he would normally surmise — that his neural processes simply demanded far more energy than his entire form was being provided. But he didn’t consider this. All he could see was _Rhys._

Was this love?

No. This was obsession. Corruption. That last waking moment of life, down on his knees, was stamped on his source code and left to fester. But regardless of its origin, it was all he knew, all he understood. Rhys was his, now, and it was all he ever wanted, _would_ ever want. And with the arrival of a very haunting shape at the front door, hours earlier, that fragile hold he had on the Atlas CEO was compromised.

Timothy. Timothy friggin’ Lawrence. Good old DG-21C. What were the _goddamn odds?_

In all honesty, Jack wasn’t particularly astounded by the news. After all, he’d been the one to pour endless resources into the kid, figuratively and literally shaping him into the operative he had needed. He had dozens of body doubles, of course, but most didn’t undergo the rigorous training routines and weapons practice that he had forced upon his special project. They were _nothing_ next to Timothy. If anyone was going to survive the lockdown of the Jackpot, it was his Tim Tams himself.

So yeah, okay, the odds were pretty good. But the chances of him showing up at Rhys’ penthouse door?

From the darkest depths of his code, something unsettling arose and gripped Jack’s entire being as he watched the interaction between Timothy and his Rhysie. There was little he could do at the time, as he struggled to take shape in yet another new version of himself, but the remaining sensors in the room had provided him the view he had needed to witness every gesture, hear every word, watch every _touch._

Rhys’ reaction was understandable. It was a lie of omission, keeping Timothy away from him. The potential of a living, breathing Jack suit was likely something Rhys was desperately trying to forget even existed, to keep separate from the little world that was his penthouse, Jack’s prison. But it wasn’t the opportunity of Timothy’s existence that held Jack’s attention. No, it was something more alluring, a sensation that ripped through his veins, set tension into every muscle of his body, hollowed out his mind and isolated one word at the forefront.

_Mine._

Rhys belonged to _him._ It was _Jack and_ _Rhys_ that had fought their ways across the wilds of Pandora, _Jack and Rhys_ that faced off in a gripping, final showdown — _Jack and Rhys_ that had found each other despite the years and anguish and agony.

Did Timothy really think he could waltz in and put his hands on what was rightfully Jack’s?

 _I can’t lose you again. I can’t lose you again. I can’t_ —

“Mm…Jack…”

Jack turned his head to gaze through the darkness, reaching out to gently stroke the soft lines of Rhys’ face, to calm his restless sleep. His expression briefly pinched, but faded away with Jack’s touch; he curled further into the blanket with a happy hum.

How perfect, that Rhys was the one to find him. He had been doubtful at first, with Rhys’ fumbling, goofy nature. When he’d gone toppling over the railing at their first meeting and almost killed himself, Jack was certain he’d be spending even more time trapped within the cybernetics of a corpse on Pandora. But Rhys had persevered, had performed _wonderfully,_ and on more than one occasion, Jack was surprised to catch himself picturing all the dirty things he could do to that soft face. It was only with time, and subsequent series of betrayals, that Rhys became more than just a pawn.

And Jack had deserved what Rhys had done to him. After all, he had manipulated Rhys from the start. He had lied to him, tricked him, forced him into increasingly uncomfortable situations at his own behest. He had even taken advantage of the poor kid when he’d fallen unconscious, grasping handfuls of synapses to work him like a puppet. Regardless, Rhys had done everything he had asked, and Jack had _still_ stabbed him in the back.

His time in the dark was his punishment. But what came out on the other side…he still had no rightful way of knowing. He still _felt_ like Jack. He still burned with hatred for those who had wronged him in the past, still yearned for power. But Rhys had claimed all of his attention, intentions, and while it felt _wrong,_ like Rhys was never meant to be worthy of his time, it all felt _so right._

His mind had been torn apart and reshaped in the form of _Rhys._

And Rhys continued to deliver. Now, not only could Jack _feel,_ but he had _presence,_ could affect and manipulate the world around him. It was something so simple and yet most people took for granted, something that Jack appreciated more than he ever could have known. While others exhausted their abilities on menial tasks, on simple living, Jack now burned with intent. Rhys had given him a gift, and he would not squander it.

The chair at Rhys’ desk compressed beneath his weight; he smiled at the momentary loss of balance, revelling in the long lost sensation. He was quick to return to the task at hand, summoning a holoscreen from the panel below, and after a few wasted minutes of searching, he sighed in irritation, realizing that Rhys had the foresight to block out communications. All of his inboxes were locked down, which Jack had expected but mourned regardless. He tapped idly at the armrest of his chair, casting a glance toward the office door that remained ajar before again edging forward.

The network was down, but the locally saved files were not. And while he couldn’t access any Atlas-specific data, Jack was able to find a cache of news pieces that quickly caught his attention. He clicked through endless information, eyes wide as snippets such as _COV_ and _Maliwan_ jumped into view. Even Rhys appeared once or twice, in articles that set Jack’s teeth on edge — but he supposed it had all worked out in the end. He seethed, drawing fingers in jagged streaks down the armrests, and kicked the chair back.

Jack leaned forward across the desk, collecting cords and tools where needed before advancing to the living room, where his digistruct device still rested on the counter. With these in hand, he slowly began to make his way toward the bedroom down the hallway, humming in thought.

He thought that the desperation that had taken hold during his years in the darkness would fade — that he would return to some semblance of _Jack_ once he was back on his feet. But he knew now, while staring at Rhys asleep on the bed, that it was stronger than ever. And when he bent to press a gentle kiss alongside Rhys’ ever vulnerable neural port, he whispered softly, almost inaudibly, at his ear.

“Sorry about this, Rhys. My loyal, _perfect_ Rhysie.”  
  
  


* * *

“He’s here, Zane.”

“Who’s here?”

“He’s here, and he’s _alive.”_

“Slow down, boyo.”

“You don’t understand. We don’t have time—”

Zane’s hands slipped along the lapels of his jacket, snagging tight before rocking Timothy’s frame with a hard shake. Timothy stumbled against it, palmed his face, inhaled painful sips of air. Pure outrage worked its way through his core, and while he desperately fought against it in an effort to regain his mind, Jack yet surged and rippled just below the surface, beckoning to him with a mocking cackle that filled his ears and clouded his senses.

But it was Zane’s face he could see, with a look of concern that Timothy latched onto, a lone buoy in the torrential seas of his mind.

“Take a breath,” he ordered. “You’re here with me. You’re _safe. I promise_ you, boyo, I’ve got your back. Now just take a minute, and start over.”

To still the tremor in his hands, Timothy took hold of Zane’s flanks; he leaned forward to press his face into his shoulder. Shock and disbelief and _I goddamn friggin’ knew it_ yet clashed head-on in his skull, but the tug of Zane’s arms around him brought a modicum of peace, a surprising comfort that he clung to with vicious determination. Only days before, he’d wondered about the tentative friendship between them, if Zane could be trusted despite his past, but none of that mattered now. Everything Zane had done at the Jackpot came roaring back, and Timothy realized he was the only person he _ever_ could have relied upon.

So he cursed, chewed his cheek, shivered violently, and Zane merely held him, a hand tucked gently against the back of his head. For a precious moment, he even forgot about Zer0’s presence lurking nearby, awkwardly silent in the otherwise empty room.

Timothy hadn’t planned on returning to Rhys’ office so soon, adamant about avoiding a run-in with the unfortunate CEO before he’d gotten the answers he needed, but this was where he had found the two vault hunters, and the panic attack had overwhelmed him before he could suggest an alternate meeting space.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” he hissed into where his face was buried against Zane. “It was all just a sick dream. Atlas was a dream. Working for _Rhys_ was a dream. And it was bullshit all along.”

“Talk to me, Tim,” Zane’s fingers carefully cradled his head. “What the feck happened?”

“I went to see Rhys,” he started. “We had a moment when we got back from Pandora that didn’t end the way I’d hoped. I just…wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“And?” No judgement, no smirk. Zane’s voice remained tight with worry.

“You should have seen him, Zane. He was acting timid — _scared._ Like he was in trouble…or like I’d caught him doing something terrible. He pushed me out of the room before I could barely get a word in. And that’s when I heard it.”

He drew back just enough to meet Zane’s stunned gaze, jaw set tight.

“He was talking to _Jack.”_

Something shifted in Zane’s expression, but he was quick to conceal it. Zer0 shifted his weight between his feet, yet said nothing. Timothy recognized it all for what it was, and he ignored it. He, too, would have trouble believing, given the situation.

“Jack?” Zane asked carefully. “As in _Handsome_ Jack? The dead fella?”

“I know what it sounds like,” Timothy lamented. “But I know what I heard. There was arguing, and Rhys shouted Jack’s name.”

“Okay, okay,” Zane released his hold on Timothy to raise his hands in surrender. “Let’s just take a second and think this through. There’s gotta be a reasonable explanation.”

“Like what?”

“Jack’s a common name,” Zane shrugged. “Coulda been someone else?”

“I—” Timothy ran fingers through his hair, shaking the gelled monstrosity free. “Fuck. Yeah, I know. But why the hell was he so scared? And why else did he want Hyperion tech?”

“All these companies pirate from one another,” Zane snorted. “Yeh wouldn’t believe the shite I’ve been paid to filch in the past. S’not surprising.”

“Don’t explain this away,” Timothy growled, shooting Zane a narrowed look. “Don’t do that to me.”

“I’m not, Tim,” Zane sighed. “But yeh know what it sounds like. Jack has been dead for years. And even if he wasn’t — that fancy space station a’ his is gone, Hyperion is _pathetic_ now, bandits were allowed to run so rampant on Pandora that they started a bloody cult that almost destroyed the planet, and Moxxi’s got the Jackpot. What purpose would it have served him to keep his head down so long only to resurface once his kingdom’s gone to shite?”

“I…” Timothy swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

“And why with Rhys of all people?” Zane stroked a finger along one side of his moustache. “He was burned too, right? Yeh’d think he would be the first to put Jack back into the ground. Or second, at least.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Timothy frowned. “How do we know that? How did Rhys even know Jack?”

“He lived on Helios, right?” Zane turned his head toward Zer0. “Would make sense if they—”

“Before I left for the casino, I was part of Jack’s day to day,” Timothy interrupted. “Hell, I made more public appearances than he did. If he knew Rhys, _I_ would have known Rhys. It was my job.”

“Are you tryna tell me that Rhys _didn’t_ know Jack?” Zane’s eyebrow quirked up. “After he aimed that pistol at you? Lookin’ like he saw a ghost?” 

“No, I…” he wrung his hands, exhaling his frustration. “I gotta know, Zane. I can’t just ignore what happened up there.”

“Okay, okay,” Zane eased back. “So what do yeh want to do? Do you wanna confront Rhys?”

Timothy shuddered. He bit his lip, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

“Then what?” Zane tilted his head. “Y’gotta help me out here, boyo.”

If he were being honest with himself, Timothy would have openly admitted he wanted to go back. If not to confront Rhys, but to save him from whatever mess he had gotten himself into. It was difficult to trust the Atlas CEO given the circumstances, but Zane was right — Rhys _had_ looked terrified at their first meeting. And Timothy’s immediate realization at the time had been that only someone who had known Jack would have reacted that way. But what did it all mean?

He’d also always been genuinely skeptical, even with the lockdown of the Jackpot. Handsome Jack did not die. Handsome Jack _couldn’t_ die.

“I always just took everyone’s word for it,” Timothy growled. “That _bandits_ killed Jack? Fucking nonsense.”

“It was not bandits,” Zer0 at last broke his silence, arms folded over his chest. “Four vault hunters were present. / Not mindless bandits.”

“I…” Timothy cringed, gazing apologetically toward the stern assassin. “Sorry. I know. I just—”

“I can promise you. / Handsome Jack is indeed dead. / I made sure of it.”

“So then what—”

Timothy froze at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. Zer0 and Zane, too, straightened, heads turning simultaneously in the direction of the hallway leading to the office.

“Well… _this_ is interesting.”

Despite the alarms ringing in his head, Timothy turned to face Rhys. The cybernetic man passed a look over the three that shifted from surprise to disbelief to annoyance before he continued on his way. Upon reaching his desk, he placed a device onto its surface before dragging his chair forward and falling into place. Once seated, he again considered his audience, lingering briefly on Zer0 with a darkened, irked gaze.

“Can I help you, gents?” he exhaled sharply.

“We need to talk, boyo,” Zane hummed. “Tim here has some concerns.”

Timothy went rigid under Rhys’ renewed scrutiny, feeling a fresh tension tighten in his shoulder blades. Rhys passed his irritation along to him before sinking back in his chair, resting his chin on his knuckles.

“No kidding,” he snorted. “This an intervention of some kind?”

“Not exactly,” Zane frowned. “But you’ve been actin’ a bit odd, yeh gotta admit.”

“Do I.”

His reply was oddly flat — a question seeking no answer. Timothy bristled, scanning the soft lines of Rhys’ face as though he didn’t recognize the man sitting behind the desk.

Well, he _didn’t_ really, did he?

“We just wanted to know—”

“How did you know Handsome Jack?”

Zer0 and Zane’s heads snapped toward Timothy in unison. Rhys barely acknowledged him at all, sighing his frustrations aloud while eyeing the desk and turning to rummage through one of the drawers. He drew out a picture frame and made a face of disgust before tossing it back into the drawer to continue his search.

“I worked for Hyperion,” Rhys grunted. “Obviously.”

“That can’t be all,” Timothy insisted. “If you knew Jack, I would’ve—”

“Maybe we had a secret affair,” Rhys’ eyebrows bobbed up and down. “Or maybe I was just a useful pawn once or twice. Why’s it any of your business?”

“Because you’re my goddamn boss now,” Timothy snapped. “And I heard you fucking _talking_ to him.”

Rhys paused halfway through the next drawer. He lifted his head, locking eyes with Timothy.

“Tim…that’s imp— What do you _think_ you heard?”

His expression softened ever slightly; his eyebrows turned upward in pained confusion. And suddenly, there was _Rhys._ Timothy was taken aback for a moment, put off by the sudden shift in the cybernetic man’s tone.

“…after you closed the door in my face. You said ‘fuck you, Jack.’”

His cheeks burned red beneath his mask. Slowly, he was starting to realize how stupid it all sounded. Zane was right, (as usual) — Jack _was_ a particularly common name. But the events of the past week had rocked Timothy’s world, and he just needed reassurance. Solid ground. When the series of coincidences continued to align, it was all just _too much._

Rhys closed the drawer at his fingertips, scanning the surface of his desk with an unreadable mien before opening the next. He stopped, spying something of interest, something tucked away out of Timothy’s range of sight. Seemingly appeased, Rhys leaned back, waving a hand through the air in dismissal.

“Yeah, that…” he muttered. “It’s not what you think. Not that I’m certain _what_ you think. Let’s just say there are some interdepartmental issues that resulted in the firing of an individual, _Jack,_ that you needn’t concern yourself with.”

“That—” Timothy went still. Well, yeah. That was…possible.

“So what’s been eatin’ you?” Zane asked, digging his thumbs into his belt. “You’ve been listless. Unfocused.”

Rhys once again passed his attention over the crew, hovering too long on Zer0 before returning to Zane.

“I am the CEO of a massive corporate entity,” he stated firmly. “Our planet was recently invaded, I have countless tasks that apparently only _I_ can deal with, and now, I have three vault hunters standing in my office demanding who knows what. Not to mention a Handsome Jack double that seems to be doubting _me_ about my past allegiances.”

Something bitter twisted in Timothy’s stomach. Rhys pushed onto his feet, leaning his palms onto the surface of his desk.

“What _do_ you want?” he growled. “Do you want me to spill my guts about my past? About how I sent Helios hurling out of the sky? How I had to tear out my cybernetics in self preservation?”

_Holy fuck._

“Well, tough shit. Because I don’t owe you anything.”

“Why’d you ask Blake for the contract?”

Rhys’ eyes snapped wide. He tilted his head. “Come again?”

“My contract with Jack,” Timothy narrowed his eyes. “Why did you ask Blake to transfer it to you?”

Something flashed behind Rhys’ gaze. A beat passed as he considered, chewing at the inside of his cheek.

“I wanted to make sure they had nothing on you,” he murmured. “That Hyperion had no leash on you anymore.”

Timothy schooled his reaction, despite the strike that was Rhys’ reply. He'd suspected it at the time, _hoped_ Rhys' reasons had been innocent, but overhearing Jack's name had him second guessing everything. However, with every easy answer, his concerns appeared less and less valid. Even Zane turned to look his way, confronting him from his peripherals.

“…Tim.”

Rhys made his way around the desk, movements slow and languid. He paused at the front, fingertips tented on the surface behind as he leaned back against it to pass a slow, heavy gaze over Timothy.

“I think I know what this is about,” he murmured, gently drawing his lower lip under his teeth. He braced against his forearms, rocked back, and pressed his ass down to sit on the desk. Timothy watched all of this in silence, eyes wide. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?

His mouth ran dry. His hands went clammy. After a few moments of unresponsiveness, as though a fuse in his head had burnt out, he sensed motion at his side.

 _“Well,_ we’ll be getting out of the way, then,” Zane coughed, snagging onto Zer0’s shoulder. “Sorry about all this, Atlas. We’ll talk later.”

“Zane—” Timothy shot a look at the retreating vault hunter, flush with a punch of fear.

“Thanks, Flynt,” Rhys smiled warmly, negating his worries. “‘preciate it.”

Zane offered Timothy an encouraging grin before continuing his exit. Zer0 said nothing, a quiet that he had maintained since Rhys had arrived, but followed after Zane as they crossed the room, and eventually, their footsteps faded, allowing silence to descend over the room once again. But despite the cautious stare that Rhys maintained, tempting Timothy forward, he couldn’t determine if it was a _peaceful_ silence.

“So?” Rhys hummed. “What’s going on?”

Timothy swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“I fucked up,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to confront you like that. I just—”

“You’re _afraid_ of Jack,” Rhys nodded. “Right?”

“Pumpkin, if we want to talk about who was _afraid,”_ Timothy cocked an eyebrow. “You looked downright terrified at your penthouse. If it was just a firing, why were you so skittish? And now...”

Rhys smiled softly. “I guess I didn’t expect to see you at my door.”

The skin of Timothy’s ears burned red. It was difficult to maintain his skepticism with the way Rhys was looking at him.

“I mean, you disappeared for days,” he shrugged, grasping at what concerns remained. “After… _y’know.”_

Again, some bizarre, uncharacteristic weight settled briefly in Rhys’ gaze. It disappeared just as quickly, but Timothy managed to catch it all the same.

“I guess it had been a while since anyone…”

Rhys shifted on the desk, drawing his hands along his thighs. Timothy initially fought his urges, but quickly surrendered, allowing his gaze to hone in on the movement.

“…do you like me, Tim?”

His heart thudded against his chest.

“…yeah.”

Rhys’ fingers dug lines across his slacks; his thumbs slipped into the creases where his legs met his hips.

“Do you _want_ me?”

A peculiar shock ran from Timothy’s head to his toes. He almost groaned aloud, faltering forward in a subconscious step toward the man on the desk.

“Rhys—”

“Hm, hold that thought…”

Rhys pivoted, reaching across his desk to press at the comm nearby. It immediately buzzed at his call.

“Yes, Mister Strongfork?”

“Take the rest of the day off,” Rhys ordered, turning back to allow his eyes to hang on Timothy. “Starting now, would be nice.”

“O-oh!” Lena’s voice almost cracked over the comm; Timothy imagined the PA down the hallway, peeking over her desk in question. “Uh, yes, sir! Thank you!”

A pause. Rhys leaned back to press the balls of his palms against the desk. And when his legs again parted, and his back arched in invitation, Timothy was surprised to find himself suddenly standing between his knees. An eager rush of disbelief and excitement rippled through to his groin, and he slipped his hands along Rhys’ thighs, nearly moaning at the soft sensation of the synthetic material beneath his cybernetic touch.

“What, uh…” he hesitated as a nervous shiver crossed his shoulders. “What about your, er, open door—”

A deep, throaty chuckle worked its way through Rhys’ chest. He leaned forward, catching the edge of Timothy’s jaw in his palm.

“You let me handle that,” he cooed, stroking a thumb along his cheekbone. His ECHO-Eye flickered to life, a spark of light bathing their faces in a collective glow. “I might not have a door, but the elevator locks down just as easily…”

Distantly, somewhere far beyond the vast aquarium walls and the looming spaces of the office, Timothy could hear the mechanical connections taking place. His heartbeat raced within his chest upon realizing that the moment had arrived. Despite his worries and trepidations, he was where he wanted to be.

But wait — why _did_ it feel so strange? He hovered briefly, feeling a pinch of a frown as Rhys’ smile lengthened and curled.

“Rhys,” he wondered, feeling his breath slip away. “…why’s your eye _yellow?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhysie has Jack in a feedback loop.
> 
> Updates are going to be sparse for October. I'm spending all my time on a Rhacktober challenge you can see on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ssrhack/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ssrhack). Just some silly, quick sketches of our dumb boys.
> 
> Also -- thank you again to everyone commenting. It's so rewarding to read your messages and it definitely pushes me to keep going. Thank you for helping inspire this story.


	8. Ghosts of Hyperion

There was something wrong with Jack.

The revelation had come to Rhys in his sleep, though he suspected it had always been there. That gnawing, clinging feeling that he had suspected to be guilt, a feeling of _betrayal_ of his closest friends _,_ was something else entirely. He’d recognized it from the very beginning, when Jack had first appeared and his initial reaction hadn’t been that of anger, of fury, but subtle flickers of relief. Of years of loneliness, finally abated. It had secretly delighted Rhys, to see Jack look at him that way — _longingly_ — so he had ignored the deeper curl of conflict in his heart.

Because if he were to be honest with himself, he would have admitted from the start: it was not the way _Handsome Jack_ would have behaved, upon seeing his face again.

Jack was broken. Or changed. Or something. And Rhys had ignored it for his own selfish means. To recreate the fantasy of what he’d always wanted, from the moment the hologram first graced him with its presence. Rhys had defeated Handsome Jack, had tossed him into the abyss, and seven long years later, he had reached in and extracted what _he_ had wanted.

So no, it hadn’t been guilt that had motivated him. He had not forged the AR connections to provide for Jack. He had not sought out the digistruct technology for Jack. It had always been for him, for Rhys, so he could finally, _finally,_ feel the touch of the man he’d always worshipped, obsessed over —

_Loved?_

Something warm and uncomfortable clenched in his chest. He writhed against it, winced, moaned.

“Mm…Jack…”

A reassuring touch swept across his forehead. Rhys shivered against Jack’s embrace, folded into it. This. He had strived for this. Had made _Jack_ into this.

Rhys shifted beneath the tumultuous waves of restless sleep, fighting back the nudge of darker thoughts. He had collapsed beneath the immense pleasure of Jack’s hands, of satisfaction he hadn’t felt in years, (or possibly ever), but it was real fatigue that kept him under. The days and days or working without rest to give Jack what he wanted — to give Jack what he _thought_ he wanted, to give _Rhys_ what he truly wanted — were finally taking their toll. And the moment had arrived that Rhys could not ignore. That this wasn’t about Jack at all. It wasn’t about repentance, about making up for his mistakes. He simply _needed_ Jack, and he had been more than happy to accept that, somehow, Jack suddenly seemed to need him, despite how wrong it felt.

And now that bizarre uncertainty that continuously gnawed at the back of his mind began to creep forward. He had initially attempted to explain it away, that he really felt bad about his mistakes regarding Timothy, but he knew it wasn’t that. He was simply selfish, and Timothy was only a—

Shit. _Tim._

Rhys surged forward in his bed, gasping in strangled surprise. The events of the previous few hours returned to him in an instant, a flood of shock and regret and _fuck, fuck, fuck!_ It had finally happened — the clashing of his two worlds. His blissfully ignorant hopes at living two separate lives, at keeping Jack happily tucked away from the rest of the world, had been destroyed. Of course it wasn’t to last. But where did that leave them, now? What would Jack do, now that he knew about Tim?

Jack, who had disappeared from the bedroom, leaving Rhys completely alone.

Rhys tensed, scanning the room in disbelief and fear. When he made his way to the edge of the bed, he stumbled, fell head over heels, remained prone for a moment or two while staring at the remains of the torn shirt tied around his wrists. He cast it aside in the next instant, dressed with haste, all the while keeping his eye on the doorway as he drowned a series of curses beneath a strangled call through the silence.

“Jack?”

Nothing.

Rhys hazarded a step forward, and the ground dipped. He nearly tripped, face pinching with concentration and _what?_ Pausing to regain his balance, he made the attempt once more. A heavy wash of dizziness flowed over him; he palmed a nearby wall with a groan. What the fuck was that? And why was it…familiar?

With his second step, the ground again failed to yield to his weight. He collapsed forward, the door slamming open at his touch. And beyond, where he expected his darkened suite, he saw…

Timothy. Only Tim, gazing back with a wary, heated look that Rhys did not understand.

_Wait—_

The hallway had disappeared. All that remained was Timothy, surrounded by a dark vignette bordering the peripherals of his vision. And suddenly, he was weightless, having freed himself from the isolation of the room Jack had left for him to emerge into their new, true reality. He drifted in this space, unable to hold on. Unable to look away.

“It’s nothing,” a voice hummed at his ear. “Diagnostics. Don’t worry about it.”

Rhys’ throat burned with each word. It took no time at all for the realization to strike, for him to recognize the sound of his own voice.

“C’mere,” he purred. “Let me help you with these.”

His hands were on Timothy’s hips. They moved with a fluid, languid confidence that Rhys knew belonged to someone else. He could do nothing but watch as he stripped Timothy of his belt, and the digistruct device attached. Timothy’s expression tightened with heat, and none of the suspicion he should have felt at having been so expertly disarmed.

Rhys watched in horror as his cybernetic hand discarded the device into the drawer of his desk, leaving Timothy helpless.

_Jack. No._

“That’s better.”

“Rhys…” Timothy didn’t seem to notice, pressing forward between Rhys’ spread legs. He reached for Rhys’ cheek, only for his hand to be caught; Rhys tried to ignore the blue tattoo peeking out from the black button up now in his view.

It was an oddly reassuring scene to witness, regardless of the fear gripping Rhys by the throat. Part of Handsome Jack seemed to remain after all — and while his deceitful and jealous behaviour filled Rhys with bitter nostalgia, his motivations still left him wanting to vomit. If only he could. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm, to _think,_ and shut out the screaming voice in the back of his mind to put a stop to the hands slowly slipping their way toward Timothy’s neck.

“Jack.”

A pause. His cybernetic fingers twitched, falling still.

Rhys took a breath. Tried to.

“I’m warning you.” His voice lacked command, but he persisted, regardless. “If you don’t stop, if you don’t surrender control, I will initiate an emergency override of my cybernetics.”

Jack could hear him. It was obvious enough, with the way Rhys’ vision drifted up over Timothy’s shoulder, staring into the distant wall in consideration. He could hear his own voice, the click of a disbelieving laugh.

“So,” Jack snorted in his voice. “You planned for me after all, huh?”

The words were accusatory, but Rhys refused to bite. He focused instead on the hint of concern and confusion in Timothy’s face.

“No. I had it installed ages ago,” he admitted. “When Katagawa’s interests became… _obsessive._ It had nothing to do with you. But…”

Timothy tilted his head. “Rhys? Are you okay?”

Rhys’ heart palpated. Jack waited.

“If you do not remove your hands from Tim, if you do not return my body to me, I will trigger the override. And if you aren’t plugged into your device when that happens, I’m not sure what will…”

He allowed it to hang in the air. It was a lie, but a very obvious one. Rhys knew very well what would happen. And he didn’t _want_ it to happen. Not after they had given each other so much. The selfish impulse remained. But it was Jack forcing his hand now — and it was Jack who would have to respond.

“…you _wouldn’t.”_

“Normally, you’d be right,” Rhys relented. “But look at what you’ve done, Jack. You betrayed me. Again. And what am I supposed to do with that?”

He was bluffing. He would never have the strength to destroy Jack. But Jack had no way of knowing that. Utter silence followed, and he watched his hands flex around Timothy’s shirt, his wrist.

“Rhys?” the body double winced. “What’s going on?”

“Five.”

The grip tightened. Something cautious flashed behind Timothy’s eyes.

“Four.”

“Okay, kitten. Hold on. _Wait.”_

“Three.”

A flurry of movement. Jack had abandoned Timothy in self preservation, spinning over the surface of the desk. He reached for the digistruct device, and the cables still attached.

“Two.”

The cord came up to his temple, scrabbling. A desperate, forced act. Rhys did his best not to let his voice waver at the sight.

“One.”

“Rhysie, wait, stop, I can’t—”

Rhys felt the massive pulse of a rush of energy, and everything else went dark.

* * *

A quiet surge of panic flooded Timothy’s system. He watched in quiet awe and terror as Rhys appeared to be battling with _someone — himself?_ The other man’s behaviour was neurotic, misplaced; he stared over Tim’s shoulder, lost himself in nothingness, replied to thin air. And Timothy, like an idiot, remained in place. He had not failed to notice that Rhys had removed his inventory, and he had also not forgotten the pistol concealed within Rhys’ cybernetic arm. But he was determined not to run this time.

There was something wrong with Rhys, and while Timothy’s entire being urged him to leave, to save himself, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon him.

“…you wouldn’t.”

Rhys’ voice dripped with fear, and something not unlike rage. Timothy tensed at the sound of it; despite the massive red flags, he wanted to reach out, to reassure the other man.

“Rhys?” he exasperated, scanning his face in desperation. “What’s going on?”

The Atlas CEO’s eyes snapped wide. The hands that had remained on Timothy tightened, twisting into his flesh and shirt. An immediate feedback of hostility coursed through Timothy’s chest, but he subdued it, restrained it. He could fight back — _easily._ But this was _Rhys,_ for fuck’s sake.

And then the grip disappeared. Rhys had pivoted on the desk, scrambling for the strange device he had placed down upon his arrival. Timothy watched cluelessly as he struggled to plug it in into his head, stabbing once or twice into the flesh of his temple as though he hadn’t been able to pinpoint the location of his own neural input. His urgent, violent movements had Timothy almost walking back a step in alarm.

When at last the connection slipped into place, his body jerked violently in response. Timothy’s hands quickly dropped to his flanks, to provide support, but Rhys slumped backward, twitching, twisting. Saliva foamed at his mouth. He bent, and his head connected with the surface of the desk in a sick _crack_ before he ripped free from Timothy’s grasp. And in the next moment he was on the floor, with Timothy standing over him.

“Shit. Rhys!”

_What the fuck!?_

Timothy crouched, reaching forward to pat at Rhys’ cheek. Rhys’ face crinkled ever slightly, a wince in reply, but nothing else. Timothy turned on the dais, pulling the other man into his lap, and frowned when his hand came away from Rhys’ head, wet with warmth. He stared at the blood staining his fingers in disbelief.

“Rhys. _Rhys._ Wake up, kiddo. Talk to me.”

He pressed his back against the desk, hauling Rhys into his arms.

“Rhys!”

Timothy wavered, lost to the abrupt chaos of the scene. Several commands roared in his skull — _call for help, move him, get out, get out, get out —_ but he was frozen there, holding the unconscious man’s frame. Everything that had come before, the unease, the desire, had faded into a whirlpool of _what, why, how._ And all he could focus on was Rhys’ face.

He did not even notice the flicker of movement on the edge of his vision. He did not hear the sound of footsteps coming close. It wasn’t until the presence loomed over him, and a hand gripped at his shirt, did he realize how well and truly fucked the moment had become. That he _should_ have run.

“Alright, cupcake.”

Jack’s voice slipped into his skull, permeated every corner of his mind, branded itself on his soul.

“Put Rhys down. Nice and easy.”

Timothy lifted his head. His heart stopped. Jack stared back coolly, mask tight with loathing.

“…Jack.” A bitter taste filled his mouth. _“No.”_

And then he was on his feet. On his back. His head spun with disorientation, blinded by the sight of the ceiling far overhead, assaulted by the image of Jack’s face. His words became garbled, silenced beneath the sudden pressure against his throat.

“Good old Timothy.” There was no warmth to Jack’s voice. Only determination. And it was all too hauntingly familiar — the embrace of Jack’s hand, the click of bones in his windpipe. The drenching, all-consuming fear. “Loyal, devoted Tim Tams.”

A cold, fresh awareness flooded Timothy’s insides. The old nickname, that only Jack could possibly know, rang in his head. It was real, then. Jack wasn’t dead. And he was _here._

“Jack,” he said again, a gasping breath beneath tightening fingers. “Please.”

His eyes snapped open at the press of Jack’s chest over him. He felt his legs dangling uselessly over the lip of the desk; the sharp stab of the lip dug into his spine. And there was Handsome Jack, a massive form in the emptiness of Rhys’ office — a room suddenly made tiny by his presence alone. His face remained sharpened, curled with a fury that both surprised Timothy and smothered him with dread.

He had seen that look only once before — bordered by the glowing, writhing flesh beneath the fresh branding of an Eridian symbol.

“Too late, Tim,” Jack’s voice bit at his ear. “Hell, it was too late when you decided to put your goddamn hands on my Rhysie.”

 _Rhysie._ Timothy grunted, ignoring the sick feeling of his stomach flipping over at Jack’s words to meet his glare.

“Jack, wait," he choked. “Rhys is _injured.”_

A pause. Astoundingly, Jack turned, and his expression shifted into something unrecognizable when he spotted Rhys still on the floor, unconscious.

“Shit.”

The pressure against Timothy’s neck disappeared completely. He spluttered, touching the tender, red skin where Jack’s hand had been, and closed his eyes in relief.

“Hey. Rhysie. C’mere, kitten. I’ve got you.”

Stuck in an awkward position against the desk, Timothy froze, staring as Jack crouched at the foot of the dais. The other man carefully slipped his arms under Rhys’ frame, remarkably gentle in every movement. It was…

 _Was_ this Jack?

As Jack climbed to his feet with Rhys tucked safely in his arms, and advanced across the office, Timothy remained where he was at the edge of the desk. He watched in utter, stunned silence, unsure of what to do, what to say. And Jack slowly lowered Rhys onto the couch against the wall, barely sparing a look over his shoulder.

“Get a goddamn hypo, Tim,” he snapped, voice sharp and authoritative. “Middle desk drawer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Deep, choking shame struck Timothy in the chest as the words instinctively slipped free. He ignored it all, turning to press his palms into the floor. Working his way around the desk, he groped blindly at the drawers, unable to keep his head turned away from the display of Jack and Rhys for long.

Jack and Rhys. _Jack and Rhys._

And the way Jack was _holding_ Rhys, cradling his head with just the right amount of pressure while simultaneously stroking the hair out of his face. It was tender. It was affectionate.

It was so strange and foreign that Timothy had faltered, lost to the bizarre intoxication of the scene.

“Tim!”

“Ah—!”

His fingers found the drawer lip, tugging uselessly. It would not come free; he lowered his head in a frown at the touch of a strange texture beneath the handle.

“It won’t — it’s _stuck,_ Jack.”

“Goddamn it. Right.” Jack shot a knowing, exhausted look in his direction. “Never mind. It has biodata locks.”

Timothy’s eyes focused on the drawer, hanging in place. The drawer, where Rhys had dropped his inventory and communication devices, both affixed to his belt. Out of reach, locked away. Horrific understanding descended, and he lifted his head at the next realization, gaze lingering on the hallway extending past the aquariums, where the elevator was still locked down.

_Trapped like a rat._

“Eyes open, Rhysie. Look at me, kitten.”

 _Kitten?_ The simple utterance of that single, unassuming word put a dent in Timothy’s fear. He rose with some trepidation, cautiously slipping his way out from behind the desk. Jack was still crouched at Rhys’ side, cupping a hand to his cheek, like he’d forgotten Timothy was even there.

“Babe. Hey. _Rhysie.”_

No response. Timothy’s mouth went dry. Head wounds bled a _lot,_ something Timothy knew first hand. But regardless, he couldn’t help the twisting in his gut to see the blood soaking the cushion beneath Rhys’ head, the blood on Jack’s hand.

“Rhys, sweetheart, I’m _sorry,”_ Jack ducked forward to nuzzle Rhys’ cheek. “Just open your goddamn eyes, baby.”

“Who the hell are you?”

He couldn’t help himself. It was a desperate question, as he thrashed his way to the surface, searching for answers. For _something_ to explain _whatever the fuck was happening._

Jack’s brow furrowed; his lips pulled into a snarl upon meeting Timothy’s disbelieving stare.

“If you’re not going to be useful,” Jack growled. “Just stay the fuck out of the way.”

_“Jack.”_

Rhys twisted beneath Jack’s touch, turning his face into his palm. He groaned, winced, blinked against a clear indication of pain. Jack immediately swallowed him whole, tugging him closer, touching their foreheads together in a sickeningly intimate gesture.

“Fuck, Rhysie,” he hissed. “You scared the shit out of me, kitten.”

“W-what happened?”

“You must’ve hit your head when I…” Jack wavered. Frowned. “It’s okay. You’re okay, now.”

“What did you do, Jack?” Rhys whimpered. “What did you do to Tim?”

Timothy’s heart pounded in his ears. He still lingered at a distance, feeling lost, like a spectator to something he never would have imagined was possible. Something for which he never could have prepared. Something he wasn’t _supposed_ to witness. And yet there it was — Handsome Jack, on his knees, crouched over someone else. Over Rhys.

Distantly, he remembered the exchange with Rhys that had set off this chain of events. It all made sense, at last. Why Rhys seemed so unavailable. Why he had _looked so scared._

“I’m here, Rhys.”

Timothy heard the words before he realized they were his. Rhys’ head turned his way; his face crumpled when their eyes met.

“Tim…” His voice was almost a whisper. “I…I’m sorry. I—”

“We need to get you an Anshin, kitten,” Jack interrupted. “Can you unlock your desk from here?”

Rhys stared at Jack in confusion, like he was trying to make sense of his request. After a moment, he nodded past his haze, and blue light erupted from his ECHO-Eye. It washed over Jack’s face, and somewhere behind him, Timothy could hear the desk drawers click open.

“Tim,” Jack ordered. “The hypo.”

Timothy obediently returned to the desk. He found a medical pouch in the middle drawer, grabbing it with little thought before crossing the room. He retrieved a health kit from inside, and Jack snagged it from his hand, quickly turning to stab it through the material of Rhys’ sleeve.

Delirium and ecstasy crossed over Rhys’ face. It washed over Timothy with some bizarre hint of heat, prodding at what had only minutes before been the very confusing start of an erection. He realized quickly that he was still similarly displaced, overwhelmed by the chaos and confusion of Rhys’ behaviour, of Jack’s sudden appearance, and of where Timothy possibly fit into the mess.

It was then that he realized he’d left his guns, and his ECHO device, in the desk. Neither of them seemed important now, as he watched Rhys struggle to sit up, reaching back to check his head before gazing in shock at the crimson stain on his fingertips as he withdrew his hand.

“Shit,” he groaned, allowing Jack to steady him in place. “I didn’t expect it to hit that hard.”

“Well, that’s what you get for triggering the override,” Jack rolled his eyes, sounding peculiarly annoyed. “I would’ve—”

“I _didn’t_ trigger it,” Rhys snapped. “You ejected from my cybernetics and it forced a reboot. I’m pretty sure I had a seizure.”

“Rhysie, you—”

“Shut _up,_ Jack.” Rhys’ brow tightened. “How could you _do_ that to me? _Again?”_

“I…” Jack slipped back onto his haunches. His head turned ever slightly, locking onto Timothy where he yet stood in silence. “…you know why, kitten.”

Rhys, too, looked his way, and his eyelids fluttered in disbelief. “Timothy has _nothing_ to do with this, Jack.”

Timothy felt flush with raw desperation. Envy, maybe. Well, definitely. But he remained silent — waiting, absorbing.

“Bullshit,” Jack growled. “You admitted it yourself. He _touched_ you. He—”

“What did I _do_ to you?” Rhys’ voice broke; he stared at Jack with some pitying, mournful look. “You’re not this goddamn insecure, Jack. How could you ever believe I wanted anyone else, after everything we’ve been through?”

And this was all it took. It was this statement, after minutes of dizzying, nausea-inducing exchanges between his current and past employers, that broke Timothy from his mindless drift. He wandered forward, close enough that neither of the men could ignore his presence.

“Rhys,” he hissed. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Tim, I…” Rhys shivered, avoiding Timothy’s penetrating stare. “I’m not sure I can—”

“No, no, Rhysie,” Jack cut him off with a growl. “I think it’s about time we had this conversation, don’t you agree?”

Rhys’ gaze found the floor. Stayed there.

Jack released Rhys’ hands, pivoting on his knees. He turned to meet the confrontation head on, climbing to his feet, and a few seconds of silence passed as he studied Timothy’s face with undecipherable intent. Timothy immediately felt his confidence wane, but somehow managed to not back down.

“You look good, Tim Tams — all things considered,” Jack hummed, an eyebrow quirked. “Damn, I age like perfection, eh?”

“And you look exactly the same,” Timothy fired back. “How is that possible?”

“You can thank Rhysie here for that little miracle,” Jack grinned. “Or part of it, anyway.”

“And how are you _alive?”_ Timothy’s muscles tensed. “Zero was pretty fucking certain you were six feet under.”

Fury shifted beneath Jack’s mask. It was the same look that had crossed Rhys’ face earlier, when he had entered the office to find the trio present. Something about that similarity niggled at Timothy, a realization struggling to take shape — but his anger was _louder._

“I knew it,” he spat. “I fucking _knew_ it. No one would believe me. Why did you have to come back? Why now?”

Jack tilted his head. “Sorry to disappoint, cupcake. It would’ve been sooner, but…”

“Fuck _off,_ Jack,” Rhys grumbled into his palms.

“No — _no.”_ Timothy’s hands balled into fists. “Stop it with this cryptic fucking bullshit, and tell me what the hell is going on!”

It wasn’t until Jack was in his space, fingers threading through his hair and his shirt, that Timothy realized his mistake. This was still Jack, after all.

“Well, you’ve certainly become a mouthy little shit,” Jack snarled. “Rhysie, you’ve coddled him. He thinks he _deserves_ an explanation.”

“Jack, stop!”

“What happened to my good little pet, huh?” Jack tugged his head back, sending lances of pain up through his scalp, into his skull. “Took me years to perfect you. And, what, only weeks spent with Atlas for you to grow a set?”

“Get your hands off me,” Timothy stuttered. Rage roiled under his skin, and he embraced the feeling, latching onto a decade of hatred. “I don’t take orders from you. Not anymore.”

“Oh no?” Jack chuckled, tightening his grip. “You don’t think so?”

“The contract is gone,” Timothy spat. “And even if it wasn’t, you can’t have me.”

The laugh that tore free from Jack’s throat was a cruel, mocking thing.

“What?” he snorted. “And why the hell would I want _you?”_

He was tempted to feel relief. To cling to his newfound sense of freedom. But everything still felt so goddamn _wrong._

“It’s like you used to say,” he seethed in reply. “That you’d never let me go.”

“Hah…well…” Jack’s thumb drifted across his Adam’s apple. “Priorities change, I suppose.”

Timothy blanched. His voice broke with uncertainty. _“Priorities.”_

“I don’t _need_ you anymore, Tim Tams.”

“Oh? And what changed?”

If what Jack said was true, it would be wise not to argue, not to sway Jack’s opinion in any way. But he had to know. He had sincere doubts that Jack had any sort of change of heart, especially given his continued inclination toward a good strangling. However, as Jack’s expression shifted, and he turned his head, suddenly, Tim wasn’t so sure. Timothy followed his gaze, feeling his blood run cold.

Rhys was on his feet, watching the two with horrid uncertainty. He looked scared, conflicted, lost. And Jack only stared.

Oh. Oh, _shit._

“I have everything I need, now,” Jack continued, mask dark with sharpened shadows as he turned back to meet Timothy’s gaze. “And you, pumpkin, are in the way of that.”

“Jack, _stop.”_

“What did he tell you, Rhysie?” Jack hummed. “When you found him?”

“I, what?”

“Did he tell you he was a _victim?”_ Jack went on. “That I bullied him? That I forced him to do my bidding?”

“Fuck you,” Timothy seethed, struggling in vain beneath Jack’s grasp. Why the heck was he _so strong?_

“Don’t be naive. Timothy wasn’t a prisoner. He _loved_ his job.”

“I _didn’t—”_

“And oh, was he _great_ at it. In fact…” a jagged smile carved itself into Jack’s face. “I’m pretty sure he has more blood on his hands than even _I_ do.”

That…well, shit. That could be true. Sure, everything he’d ever done had been at Jack’s behest, but he had killed _so many people_ since Elpis. And Jack was right — to a certain extent, he _had_ enjoyed it. It was that devastating, hollow truth that had remained with him, long after Jack had disappeared.

“How else do you suppose he survived a lockdown in that goddamn space station for the last seven years?” Jack pivoted Timothy, enough to send a dark look in Rhys’ direction. “You think he just hid away the entire time? Crept around in the shadows? No, Rhysie. You’re looking at a trained killer. One of the best. And you adopted him like he was a wounded goddamn puppy.”

“Don’t treat me like a child, Jack,” Rhys snapped. “I always knew who Timothy was. I’m not that naive. Not anymore.”

“Hah, oh rea—”

“If I gave a _shit_ about any of that, you really think I would have brought _you_ back?”

Timothy drowned beneath Rhys’ admission. It didn’t make sense. Not yet. But somehow, the potency of it forced him below the surface, pinning him there.

“Well. Fair enough, kitten. And I don’t blame you. For any of it,” Jack nodded. “Because I know what happened. What must have gone through your head when you saw his face. It’s sweet, really, and I know I wouldn’t be standing here if it _hadn’t_ happened. But you shouldn’t have kept him, Rhysie. You gave him hope. He took one look at you — at the man who _defied Handsome Jack,_ and he fell head over heels in love. Didn’t you, Tim Tams?”

Timothy squeezed his eyes shut. He struggled for a breath in the silence extending from Jack’s question, shuddering against his hands.

“So what if I did?” he uttered, feeling his strength wane. “Can you blame me?”

Jack’s grip tightened.

“You wanna elaborate on that, pumpkin?”

“You were right, Jack.You spent years beating me down. Breaking me. Turning me into nothing more than Handsome Jack’s goddamn shadow. And it worked. I did everything you ever asked. But that was never enough, was it?” Timothy released his grip on Jack’s arm. “You needed _everything.”_

His fingers found the clasps at his temples, snapping them free. Jack’s eyes widened.

“Only a handful of people knew your real face. The mask would have been enough. But you still needed that control. You still needed _perfection.”_

The mask made a pitiful, dull _clunk_ upon falling to the floor. Timothy sipped in another painful breath, feeling the cold sting of open air on his gnarled, ravaged face.

“You destroyed me, Jack. I didn’t know who I fucking _was_ anymore. You succeeded in every way — you _killed_ Timothy Lawrence.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, face tight with rage at being confronted with his own true visage. But Timothy wouldn’t give him the chance. Not anymore.

“And I _let_ you. For _years._ Even after you died, I was only ever Handsome Jack’s double,” he spat. “And then I met Rhys. And he, too, was broken. He, too, had somehow been burned by Handsome Jack.”

Jack’s face twitched.

“And I stupidly believed that here, finally, I had a chance. Here, I could remember who _I_ was, and not what you’d made of me. Because if Rhys could survive you, maybe I could, too. He gave me strength.” Timothy sagged in Jack’s grip. “How could I _not_ love him for that?”

The snarl distorting Jack’s mask deepened. “You—”

_“Jack.”_

Timothy tipped his head, as much as he could with the hand still on his throat. Rhys was at their side, cradling Jack’s mask in his hands. Well — _Timothy’s_ mask.

Rhys’ eyes flickered over Timothy’s scar; he winced, then raised his arm, resting metal fingers on Jack’s wrist.

“Let him go, Jack. Please.”

“I can’t, Rhysie.”

“You can,” Rhys moved forward, pressing his face into Jack’s shoulder. “You have to.”

“Kitten—”

“Because if you hurt him, Jack, it will be my fault. And I can’t let that happen. If you kill Tim…” he shivered. “I don’t know what I’ll do. But it will be the end of this. Of us.”

_Of us._

Jack stiffened. He closely studied Rhys’ face, dragging in sharp breaths of air. Timothy frowned at the sensation — at what should have been heat bathing over his face. But instead… _nothing?_

“I can’t lose you again, Rhys.”

“Then let him go, Jack,” Rhys insisted. “And we can figure this out. Together.”

Jack seemed to consider. He traced the lines of Rhys face, eyes narrowed. And Timothy felt the press of his hand tighten.

“Sorry, kitten. This is for the best.”

His air cut out. His body snagged rigid in reply. His hands scrabbled at Jack’s chest.

“Don’t worry. You won’t mourn his loss for long,” Jack’s mouth yet again twisted with a dark, unsettling smile. And gods, it would be _the last thing he saw._ “After all. He’s _just my shadow.”_

Timothy struggled. Rhys, too, latched onto Jack’s arm. And it was all in vain. He was so unbelievably strong. And it was so wrong, _so strangely wrong._

“Sorry, kiddo,” Jack winked. “But are you really surprised that this was how it would end?”

No. He wasn’t. As his vision blurred, as his lungs ached, all he could see was _Jack._ Like so many of his nightmares before. All of his fears, finally realized. The three of them, here now, locked in desperate struggle. The ghosts of Hyperion. It was their fate.

Just at the edge of consciousness, as the sensation of pain faded away, and all he could feel was the lovely, wonderful touch of Rhys’ skin against his cybernetic, Timothy heard the distant clap of a gunshot.

And Jack’s face exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back from my silly Rhacktober challenges!  
> Not sure I'm happy with this chapter, but it has been about a month since I've written anything, so I'm a bit rusty.
> 
> Again, thank you for the amazing feedback. It was hard not having the time to write anything when your wonderful comments kept rolling in. Much love.


	9. Confessions of an Artificial Mind

Beyond the high-pitched, deafening ring in his ears, voices began to gather. They were indistinct at first, dull behind the throbbing pain in his throat and the burning in his lungs. But as he surrendered to the press of gravity, to the cool touch of the floor below, the murmurs from all around slowly became coherent. Timothy could recognize the alarm in their words, an urgency that he couldn’t exactly explain but somehow made complete sense.

“The device on my desk, Zane—”

“Shite. Is he…”

“Zane.  _ Please. _ On the desk.”

Disorganized footsteps sent vibrations through the floorboards. Timothy felt his prosthetic twitch, a pulse fired off from his brain that yet struggled for oxygen. In the next moment he was lifted awkwardly, slumping, as knees tucked beneath his shoulders and his head was replaced back against something soft and warm and  _ safe. _

“What do I—”

“There’s a lock on the edge.” Rhys’ voice was above him now. Timothy’s head shifted where it was cradled in his lap. “Slide it.”

A brief pause.

“Done.”

“Okay…okay.” The tempered anguish in his reply settled ever slightly; Rhys took a wary breath. “Shit…  _ Tim.” _

Hands cupped his face, feeling oddly unbalanced. The warmth across Timothy’s cheek clashed with the cool, metallic press that stroked down his jawline. And when a thumb slipped gingerly along his throat, he winced — not at the pain, for there  _ was  _ pain, but at the  _ suggestion. _ He distantly realized that the reaction must have been evident in his expression, for the touch disappeared just as quickly. And when Rhys spoke again, his voice sounded broken, splintered by his own discomfort.

“Tim,” he said again. “Can you hear me?”

Timothy weakly jerked his head, just enough of a gesture as a nod to the affirmative, but not enough to strain the muscles in his neck. A fresh sensation folded through his cybernetic hand, and he understood it in an instant, closing his grasp around Rhys’ fingers.

“I’m sorry…” Rhys pressed their foreheads together. “Damn it, Tim, I am so  _ sorry.” _

He did not reply, did not even move. In the absence of a response, he quietly wondered at Rhys’ apology. Timothy was aware there was a _reason_ for him to apologize, something substantial, but again, he was having trouble grasping onto anything logical. So he drifted, and gently blinked past his dulled vision to allow his gaze to slip into the distant recesses of the shadowy ceiling above. His eyesight was slow to clear and focus, but he managed to snag onto a distortion of splintered wood far above. He traced the bullet hole in fruitless speculation, searching for meaning in the depths of its hollow shape, and what he found came roaring back in startling clarity.

Having held onto consciousness just long enough to watch Jack’s skull shatter and erupt was satisfying in so many goddamn ways. But he immediately noticed the peculiarity of the effect — a lack of blood and bone and brain matter. Timothy was no stranger to a well placed headshot, and thus the differences were stark, worrisome, for he also knew the odd flicker and distortion that had replaced the gore.

It was the same way his old digi-clones would rupture and collapse upon expiration.

All of the variables were coming together. Rhys’ bizarre behaviour, Jack’s cryptic words, the impossibility of the presence of a man who had been dead these last seven years. And while a solid, tangible explanation nudged at the back of his barely conscious mind, Timothy chose to ignore it until his faculties returned — until he could handle the impending shit storm without  _ breaking. _ For the time being, all he wanted to focus on was the warmth of Rhys’ fingers, a welcome distraction from the cold sting of air against his exposed scar.

There was one revelation from the jarring experience, however, that Timothy found himself clinging to with a fresh desperation. By Jack’s own admission, he didn’t want Timothy anymore. He didn’t want his little pet, his special project. He only seemed to want him dead. In this sense, he was free.

If only it wasn’t at the expense of someone else.

“Rhys,” he murmured, grimacing at the hint of fresh bruising thickening in his throat.

“Tim,” Rhys gasped. “Yes, Tim — I’m here.”

“My mask?”

“Okay, sure, hold on, let me…”

The uncomfortable, sterile touch enveloped his face; his skin screamed complaints in the old, familiar arch over his nose and through his eye, carving through the ridges of his cheeks. And just as quickly, it faded, like it had never existed at all. Rhys nimbly closed the latches, then returned his hand to Timothy’s reaching prosthetic.

“Better?”

“Is he gone?”

A clear, foreboding hesitation followed. Rhys’ fingers tightened their hold.

“Yeah, Tim,” Rhys whispered back. “You’re safe.”

Somehow, he doubted that. And at last, his mind began to gather. The few moments of peace he’d felt at being in Rhys’ embrace turned sour, as his mind focussed sharply on the memory that was  _ Jack and Rhys. _

Rhys, who had offered to save him. And Jack, whom he apparently needed saving  _ from. _

A sudden, insistent rush of frustration and anger consumed Timothy’s thoughts. As if in reply, a jolt of strength ripped through his muscles, a reminder that he was still alive. He immediately tugged his hand free from Rhys’ grasp, drawing his forearms back and grunting against the effort of drawing his core tight enough to sit up, to put distance between him and the man at his back.

“Tim, wait, you should rest until—”

“Rhys, I appreciate the concern,” he snapped, albeit weakly. “But I’d rather you not touch me right now.”

He did not turn to see Rhys’ reaction, but he could feel it. Rhys fell deathly silent, except for a soft exhale of air that Timothy took for a quiet “oh” in response.

“You okay there, Tim?”

Zane was crouched at his feet, brow furrowed with concern. Timothy gave a pained swallow, then a short nod, before glancing to the side, where he spied Zer0 not far away. The vault hunter appeared alert, on guard, an Atlas assault rifle carefully gripped in his hands. Timothy’s eyes honed in on the gun, quick to lock on to the comfort of its sleek shape. And as he raised his head, scanning Zer0’s helmet, he uttered a quiet, suffering:

“Thank you.”

Zer0 straightened, saying nothing.

“I’m fine,” Timothy returned his attention to the operative, giving a shrug. “I mean, I  _ will _ be. Just give me a minute. How’d you get here?”

Rhys was suddenly on his feet, moving past without a sound. He made his way to his desk, where he sunk into his chair, staring dejectedly at the device on the desk’s surface. Timothy ignored him.

“Maintenance elevator,” Zane gestured to a door to one side of the room — the same door that Rhys had briefly disappeared through at their first meeting. “Zero had a suspicion. And when we discovered the main elevator had locked down, we just needed to be sure.”

“A suspicion,” Timothy frowned.

“Yeah,” Zane gazed over his shoulder to his ally. “You wanna elaborate on what you told me, boyo?”

“Rhys was acting odd,” Zer0 turned his head toward the Atlas CEO. “I was told this might happen / sooner or later.”

Timothy did not hazard a look in Rhys’ direction, but he could hear the faint suggestion of irritation in his voice.

“That  _ what  _ might happen, Zero?”

The vault hunter eased back on his heel, seeming to calculate his answer.

“That Jack would return, / and take over your body / like a meat puppet.”

His eyes fluttered closed in disbelief. Despite how impossible it all sounded, it also made startling sense. The snide comments. The furious glances toward Zer0. The  _ Jack-like  _ confidence. But what did it all  _ mean? _

Timothy turned onto his palms, buckling under a wave of nausea. But with a pause, and the brush of Zane’s reassuring hand against his back, he managed to hold it off, to compose himself. He sent an accusatory look at Rhys, almost shivering with subdued rage.

“Is that true?”

It was Rhys’ turn to avoid eye contact. He picked at the material of his office chair, biting his lip.

“…how do you know this, Zero?” he asked in a murmur.

Zer0 shifted. “I—”

_ “Vaughn.” _

The chair slid back from the force of Rhys’ heel. He turned, expression tight with anger, and moved toward the window where he gazed out into the fading light of the sunset peeking past looming buildings.

“…he had no right.”

“Sounds like he was worried about you, boyo,” Zane offered.

“It’s none of his goddamn business,” Rhys growled. “I have it under control.”

“Do you?”

Rhys winced at the sound of Timothy’s voice.

“…I can fix this.”

“And what  _ is  _ this, Rhys?” Timothy snapped. He at last struggled to his feet with an assist from Zane. “How is all of this possible?”

Remaining at the window, Rhys took a slow, heavy breath. The delay triggered a very impatient rush of hostility within Timothy, but he recognized it, recognized  _ Jack,  _ and did his best to tamp it down.

For now.

“A little while after Handsome Jack died, Vaughn and I came across an opportunity involving a supposed vault key that would help with some recent misfortunes at work…” Rhys began. “It involved a trip to Pandora, where we came across the corpse of Professor Nakayama, a former Hyperion employee.”

Timothy’s breath slipped free in a hiss. He’d felt a tingle of familiarity when Rhys had mentioned the name to Blake, some days before, but hadn’t paid it any mind then, mostly due to how overwhelming Rhys’ request for his contract had been. But now, it clicked into place, and the memory of that nut job scientist crept forth. He had been unfortunate enough to encounter the man back during the events of Elpis, in which Nakayama had creepily obsessed over Jack, even calling Timothy “beautiful” for sharing his employer’s looks. What had followed was a bizarre series of tasks meant to grab Jack’s attention (and failed miserably).

He also happened to be the man who promised to make Jack  _ immortal.  _ And Timothy had  _ helped him.  _

But to be fair… the result had been a ridiculous, tiny loader bot with murderous tendencies. It wasn’t exactly concerning at the time.

“We needed his Hyperion credentials to track down some money we had lost,” Rhys continued. “So I plugged his drive into my head. But instead…it uploaded an artificial version of Jack into my cybernetics.”

“Ah, you  _ what?” _ Zane snorted.

Rhys jerked a hand through the air. “Look, I’m not saying it was the greatest idea. But it was all we had at the time. I  _ think. _ Regardless, that’s how I met Jack. And he promised to help me. He  _ did  _ help me…in his own, misguided ways.”

“I can only imagine,” Timothy almost growled.

“But we did eventually make it back to Helios. To his  _ office. _ And we never would have gotten that far without his help…” Rhys paused, lowering his head. “Handsome Jack was my hero before that. And on Pandora, we were a  _ team.” _

“That’s not what Vaughn said.” Zer0 tilted his head. “It is my understanding / he tried to kill you.”

“He tends to do that.”

“He—” Rhys closed his eyes. “He did something  _ stupid. _ Yeah. But it’s  _ different  _ now. At least I  _ thought _ it was.”

“So, wait…” Timothy paused. “Did you ever even  _ meet _ the real Handsome Jack?”

Rhys shrugged. “Kinda. He spit on me once. But, uh, looking back… that might have even been you, or one of the other doubles.”

Timothy blanched. “And he was your  _ hero?” _

“So you had a Jack AI in yer head,” Zane scratched at his beard. “What happened?”

“I…” Rhys lifted his hand to trace fingers down his prosthetic. “He tried to kill me. In a way. So I tried to leave. He didn’t like that much. It ended with…well, I destroyed Helios. But Jack distracted me long enough to plug back into my head. There was only one way to stop him.”

So it was true, then. He really did tear out his cybernetics. To stop Jack. Timothy’s heart constricted in his chest as he watched Rhys’ hand linger on his cybernetic arm. He suddenly felt the searing pain of the laser field slicing through his graft.

_ Tamp. It. Down. _

“So I stole the deed to Atlas,” Rhys breathed, lowering his hand. “And the rest is more or less history, I guess.”

“…and after all that…”

Timothy moved toward the desk, setting his palms against its surface. Rhys watched him warily from a distance, but did not otherwise move.

“You  _ still  _ brought him back?”

“I can’t explain it,” Rhys frowned. “It was dumb. I know. But it wasn’t that  _ simple _ with Jack. He and I…”

It wasn’t hard to understand, not really. After having witnessed Jack down on his knees to dote over Rhys’ unconscious frame, Timothy knew what it was that Rhys was after. Jack was addictive, in a bizarre way. An asshole, but a charismatic one. And hell, this Jack seemed to actually give a shit about Rhys.

Regardless, Timothy couldn’t help feeling nauseated by the new flow of information. And it was all so goddamn  _ disappointing. _

“Rhys…did you  _ program  _ Jack to care about you?”

“No!” Rhys flinched, glaring accusatory daggers Timothy’s way. The look faded, however, intermingled with calculated thought as his eyes fell to the surface of his desk, to the device resting there. “But I…may have inadvertently corrupted…”

Shame flickered in his gaze. Timothy caught at it, briefly wondering after it. But he was too repulsed by the idea to consider it for long, jerking his head aside in disgust.

“So the Digi-Jacks…” he muttered. “It wasn’t about helping Atlas, was it?”

Rhys winced. “No.”

“You brought Jack back,” Timothy growled. “And then you gave him a goddamn body.”

“I…” Rhys flushed red. “Yes.”

“Why?” Timothy’s hands tightened into fists. “What could Jack  _ possibly  _ be giving you?”

At the sheepish, telling look that crossed Rhys’ incredibly guilt-ridden face, Timothy sagged.

“No kidding,” he exhaled. “You risked our lives so your former hero can fuck you like you’ve always wanted, huh?”

“Tim—” Zane barked.

“Fuck you, Tim,” Rhys hissed. “Don’t pretend like you know me. You have no idea what Jack and I went through.”

“I know better than anyone what Handsome Jack was capable of,” Timothy snarled back. “And that  _ thing —  _ that’s not Jack, Rhys. That’s just a goddamn AI.”

“Just an AI,” Rhys’ features twisted. “You say that like he isn’t really Jack.”

“He’s  _ not.” _

“You say that,” Rhys continued, clearly ignoring Timothy’s retort. “Like you didn’t just have an incredibly personal exchange with him that needed to be informed by your combined past. Like you didn’t just tear off your fucking mask in an outburst of justified rage.  _ Real emotion. _ If he was ‘just an AI,’ how did he invoke such an intense response?”

Timothy opened his mouth. Closed it.

They were both right, really. The AI Jack was as fragile as his code — supported only by the simple system that allowed him to take digistructed form, which now rested on Rhys’ desk. But Timothy could not deny the authentic responses, the true fear he had felt when Jack had pinned him to that same desk. If he hadn’t personally watched the digistructed shape dematerialize, he never would have been able to guess what had happened.

But  _ still. _

“He has his mannerisms,” Rhys went on. “His beliefs. His history and memories, up until a point. You can’t tell me that’s not Jack.”

“I’m afraid we can,” Zer0 interjected, and for a moment, Timothy felt his feet set back down onto solid ground. Then Zer0 tipped his head, deflating. “Not the original Jack. / A  _ different _ Jack.”

“Sure,” Timothy threw his arms into the air. “If you want to have a rainy-day philosophical debate on what makes someone a goddamn person. But maybe not when faced with the real deal — and the real deal just tried to  _ murder  _ me.”

Rhys shrank back as Timothy’s finger stabbed through the air toward him.

“An AI that  _ you  _ brought back, and you didn’t think it was important enough to share with me. No, you strung me along. Made me believe I was  _ safe  _ with you. Like this could be my home.” He took a ragged breath. “You lied to me all along.”

“Tim, I didn’t mean—”

“And here we stood like idiots while he marched around wearing you like a goddamn suit.”

“Ah, wait, so,” Zane frowned. “Earlier? That wasn’t Rhys after all?”

“Holy shit, Zane, of  _ course _ it wasn’t him. Meat puppet, remember? Catch up.”

Timothy glanced heatedly toward the operative, only to flinch in surprise at the frustration set deep into Zane’s features, and the defensive look he gave right back.

“Easy, boyo,” his voice drew low. “I’m on  _ your  _ side…”

“I…” Timothy staggered. He turned his gaze toward Zer0, who offered nothing. Then to the device on the desk. “I’m sorry. I just… I mean, for fuck’s sake—”

Ah, ah, Tim Tams.

_ Language. _

Timothy seethed a hateful exhale, spinning on his heel, only to stumble to a halt.

“Rhys, can you  _ please  _ remove the lockdown on the goddamn elevator?”

“What? Oh.” Rhys sighed, activating his eye. “Hell, Jack…”

That same, distant  _ clunk _ of gears from earlier echoed in the distance. Timothy moved forward, intent on the exit, on  _ distance,  _ but jerked to a stop at the feeling of a hand locked around his wrist. Rhys had caught up to him, snagging onto his arm, and Timothy did all that he could to set aside the temptation to tear himself free. He gazed back with some quiet regret, eyes lingering on his shiny, black prosthetic to which Rhys yet clung, and angled his head to the side in the barest acknowledgement of whatever it was that Rhys had left to say.

“Tim… Are you leaving?” he murmured, expression pinched. “Is this you quitting?”

Sharp, heated air blasted in an exhale past Timothy’s nostrils.

“We would’ve had to have had a contract for me to be able to quit, now, wouldn’t we have?”

“I…” Rhys wavered. His hand slowly, reluctantly fell away. “I see…”

Timothy turned briefly, watching as Rhys returned to his desk to once more sink into place. His eyes fell onto the device, and he sagged into his chair.

“Zane, Zer0, if you would please leave as well…” he mumbled. “I’ll talk to you both later. I promise.”

Zane shifted uneasily, casting a gaze toward Zer0.

“Rhys—”

“I’ll be fine, Zane,” Rhys hummed. “I just need to be alone for a while.”

“Alone,” Timothy snorted, nodding toward the device.  _ “Sure.” _

“C’mon, boyo,” Zane snapped, latching onto Timothy’s shoulder to spin him in place. “Time to go.”

Timothy didn’t have to be told twice. He threw Zane’s hand off, marching down the hallway in a huff. His muscles rippled with energy, an adrenaline that he embraced, held close. Because if he let go of the anger, there was only one thing left. And he couldn’t face that yet.

But when he arrived at the elevator, only to awkwardly gaze over his shoulder as Zane and Zer0 took their sweet time in catching up, he was suddenly awash with a peculiar shame. The conflicting roiling in his stomach was a clashing of emotions — of _betrayal_ and the pain that followed. Of confusion. Of _heartbreak._

Rhys had fucked up. He was insistent on that. But in so many ways, he understood. And in so many ways, he was crushed. Rhys had been his chance. A potential future. And now…what remained?

Timothy was leaning hard against his palm on the elevator wall by the time the others arrived, pressing his other hand to his face. Zane again reached out to grasp his shoulder, but this time his touch was reassuring, friendly.

“Please,” Timothy uttered, just loud enough for Zane to hear. “I need to  _ leave.” _

“Tim… are you  _ sure _ about this?”

He lifted his head to meet Zane’s gaze, brow pinching. Truth be told, he wasn’t. He’d enabled the real Handsome Jack in the past as much as Rhys had with  _ his _ version. But whether it was regret, betrayal, or  _ fear, _ he couldn’t bring himself to turn back. Not now.

“I can’t stand by him when he so clearly values that version of Jack over my life,” Timothy breathed, brushing fingers across the flourish of bruising that had no doubt begun to cross the line of his throat.

_ “Boyo,” _ Zane groaned. “If that were true, I don’t think he would’ve shot him in the head like he did.”

“Wait, what?” Timothy floundered, eyes snapping wide. “I thought Zero—”

At his inquisitive glance, the lanky vault hunter offered a shrug before reaching aside to palm the elevator controls. The car lurched, and Timothy’s stomach almost went with it.

“We arrived too late / to have stopped Jack harming you. / But Rhys saved your life.”

“He…  _ what?” _

Timothy suddenly recalled staring at the bullet hole from where he had laid on the floor, where it lurked  _ overhead _ where he, Jack, and Rhys had been locked in their struggle. A shot that only could have been placed from directly under Jack’s chin.

Just as the elevator door began to move, he turned, glancing out into the dimly lit hallway leading to Rhys’ office. And there, in the gloom at the far end, Rhys sank into his chair, face buried into his hands. His cybernetic almost glinted in the darkness, and Timothy stared at it in quiet misery, recalling the pistol concealed inside.

“…Oh.”

* * *

“Rhys?”

Jack did not expect a reply. And he did not receive one, as he lurked in the doorway to Rhys’ home office, scanning the younger man’s face with some bizarre desperation. Rhys sat listlessly at his desk, head turned to the side, where he had been for the last few minutes. Jack had watched in begrudging silence for a while now, even when Rhys had slowly collected the AR sensors from the living room, casually dumping them into the desk drawer now open to his right. His movements had been methodical, but sluggish, and the longer his silence extended, the more Jack felt the muscles in his forearms tighten. But when Rhys carefully pulled the neural access cord from his pocket, gently shaping it into its natural coil as he set it, too, into the drawer, Jack remained where he was at the door, drawing rigid.

He waited in the agonizing quiet as Rhys activated his holoscreen, setting to some nameless task that filled the room with nothing but the drumming of his fingers against the projected keyboard. And when he finished whatever it was the hell he was doing, he eased back in his chair, and cast his gaze toward the drawer, where he sat until this moment, and Jack’s patience began to wane.

_ Endless, indeed. _

Upon having been reactivated, only to discover that he was back in Rhys’ suite, Jack’s initial response was anger. He was furious that he’d been removed from the situation, implying that they’d somehow  _ dealt  _ with him, without him even being present. But when he’d turned to confront Rhys, and he received nothing in response, not even a  _ look, _ he realized the extent of his fuck up. And it  _ was  _ a fuck up, satisfying as it was to get his hands around Tim’s neck. So he waited, lurking in the doorway of the office, at that invisible line drawn over the threshold, like a kicked puppy, hoping that Rhys would snap out of his stupor. Not just for Rhys’ sake, but also for the chance to at least consider the interesting turn of events that had taken place downstairs.

When he’d arrived in the room to discover not only the doppelgänger, but a familiar merc  _ and  _ the vault hunter piece of trash responsible for his death, his motivations had become concrete in an instant. His initial plans to access Rhys’ holoscreen — to access  _ information  _ that had been restricted from him — quickly turned to a search through the desk for a pistol. Because  _ everyone  _ had a pistol stashed away in their office, right?

Well. Rhys had neglected to mention that little upgrade to his snazzy new prosthetic. So when his search for a weapon proved fruitless, he instead turned his attention to the biolocks embedded into the desk. He might not have found a pistol, but he could easily get Timothy’s digistruct device off his hip, and handle him the old fashion way. He always preferred working with his hands, after all. It was just a matter of getting him  _ alone. _

Rhys, of course, ruined the opportunity.

But it was when he saw Rhys unconscious and bleeding on the floor that something inside him broke. And he began to question everything — his original assumption of  _ obsession _ , of some flaw in his code _ ,  _ of being motivated to pursue the younger man simply because he was something to be earned, to be won, to be kept. No, when Jack carried Rhys to the couch, and his hand came away tainted with blood, it was as if a very real heart had begun to beat faster in his chest.

Oh. Okay. So this  _ was  _ something else. And for fuck’s sake — it had been there a lot longer than he had realized.

And now Rhys was  _ ignoring  _ him.

“Rhys.”

The holoscreen emitted a gentle  _ ping,  _ and Rhys lifted his head. He shut the drawer, which distinctly locked upon closing, and unplugged the digistruct device that had been hooked up to his desk. Following a long, tired exhale, he deactivated his computer, and sank back into his seat once more.

Jack’s lips parted in question, but a faint hum through his core answered it immediately. Something had  _ changed.  _ And only then did he realize what Rhys had done.

Rhys gently pushed to his feet. He passed Jack without a word, into the main room, and advanced to the opposite side of the bar. When he reappeared again, bottle and tumbler in hand, Jack straightened. He watched the younger man cross to the living room to drop down onto the sofa, and almost growled, digging his fingers into the material of his jacket at his hip. But still — Rhys said nothing.

_ “Kitten—” _

“Yeah, Jack.” Rhys filled the glass in his hand, setting the bottle onto a nearby table. “I’m here. Let’s talk.”

At last, he met Jack’s cold, hard gaze, and his reaction was noticeably tempered. He looked run down, wary, but mad — definitely mad. However, he lacked the typical Rhys _ pout, _ something that had Jack particularly on guard. Now that he had locked away the means to access his neural port, and the extra sensors Jack could manipulate to his own means, they were on level footing. It was a statement — one made loud and clear. Rhys did not trust him anymore.

Jack leaned against the wall, letting his eyes linger on the tumbler in Rhys’ hands.

“…since when do you drink scotch?”

Rhys snorted, pressing the glass to his lips.

“Since you.”

And once again, silence followed. Rhys’ gaze fell to the floor, beyond it, to some distant place to which Jack had seen him disappear on a number of occasions. He paused, shuddering somewhat involuntarily as another wisp of energy slipped through his shoulders.

“What’s the update, Rhys?”

Rhys hummed softly. “Disables entry to my personal office. Triggers an automatic digistruct teardown if my neural input is accessed by anyone but me. Oh, and the same if you try to use the front door.”

“What, so, you’re locking me away?” Jack snarled. “I’m a prisoner in your goddamn suite again?”

“Prisoner,” Rhys scoffed. “After everything I’ve  _ done  _ for you?”

“For  _ you, _ kitten,” Jack seethed. “Don’t pretend like all of this was out of the goodness of your heart.”

“You’re right,” Rhys gazed mournfully into the suddenly empty tumbler in his hand. “It was a selfish act. But it was also motivated by guilt. Until, that is, you decided to invade my head again…”

_ Aaaand  _ there it was.

Jack grunted, slipping away from the wall. He anxiously paced the space between the bar and the living room, carving ridges into his biceps where his hands rested.

“I told you. Timothy was a loose end. I wasn’t risking losing you to him.”

“You weren’t  _ going  _ to,” Rhys snapped. “And besides — where would that end? You off Tim, and that’s it?”

“I mean…”

“You wouldn’t go after the person that  _ killed  _ you, next? One of my best friends?” Rhys hissed. “The person that helped your  _ daughter _ die?”

Jack’s eyebrows contorted sharply, casting heavy shadows over his face. He immediately drew rigid, head snapping toward Rhys in combined disbelief and disgust.

“…told you that, did he?”

“Of course he did,” Rhys replied softly, like it was obvious. “I’m glad someone did.”

He was tempted to feel outraged, to surrender to the natural impulse of  _ seek, destroy.  _ To wonder how exactly that bandit garbage had reduced his daughter’s death to seventeen syllables. But it wasn’t fair of him to be upset. Rhys, however, was justified in his anger. For so many reasons.

Jack sighed, carding fingers through his hair.

“Come on, kitten. Let’s not make a big deal out of this.”

Rhys twitched like he was experiencing whiplash.

“Excuse me? After what you did? After what  _ I  _ did?”

“What do you mean what  _ you _ did?”

“I just shot you through the goddamn  _ face,  _ Jack!”

“Oh, cut with the dramatics Rhysie…” Jack rolled his eyes — a gesture that was surprisingly effective at silencing Rhys’ quick retort, pressing him back into his chair. A very  _ Jack  _ gesture, to be sure. “You knew it wouldn’t hurt me. Pissed me off, sure, but I gotta admit, you looked pretty frickin’ hot pulling that trigger.”

“I — what?” Rhys blinked past the shock of Jack’s reply to pull his hands over his face. “See, Jack? This isn’t  _ you.” _

“Oh, no?” Jack briefly surrendered to the nagging tendril of anger, allowing his lips to curl into a snarl of frustration. “I wouldn’t have tried to strangle someone that was getting in my way?”

“Oh, you would. But I think it’s more likely that you would have looked at Tim as less of a  _ romantic rival,  _ because  _ nobody  _ competes with Handsome Jack, and tried to shove an exoskeleton into him instead!”

“I’m not a one trick pony, Rhysie,” Jack snorted. “Sure. I thought about it. But you pointed out how stupid that plan was, long ago.”

“Yeah,” Rhys shrugged. “Back when it was  _ me.” _

“Oh, so Tim Tams is fair game, then?”

_ “For fuck’s s— _ no, Jack!”

“So what are you trying to say, Rhys?”

“I’m trying to point out that our relationship only exists because of the time you spent alone,” Rhys frowned. “That if I hadn’t forced you to suffer for those years, you never would have wanted this. That it corrupted you, somehow. Changed you into something that just happened to benefit me.”

“You—” Jack blanched. “You think I’m  _ broken  _ because I  _ want  _ you?”

“I mean…” Rhys hovered. “…yeah. You’re Handsome Jack. I was a code monkey. Your worthless peon. You never would have—”

“Rhysie,” Jack interrupted him with a sharp look. “Don’t be a goddamn insecure idiot. I wanted you long before you put me in the dark.”

“I—” A ripple of shock passed through Rhys’ face. “I can’t believe that.”

“Kitten, I wanted to destroy that pretty face of yours from the first moment I saw you,” Jack growled. “And trust me. Things changed. Quickly.

“Being alone with nothing but my thoughts for seven years wasn’t easy. Not just because of  _ you,  _ either. And sure, it definitely  _ contributed _ to what we are now. I can’t deny that. But hell, Rhys, why does that mean I’m  _ broken?  _ Why can’t it mean that I’m as capable of introspection as any flesh and blood asshole? Why can’t it just mean that I looked at the shitty stuff I did in the past, and realized that I didn’t want to lose the only goddamn thing I had left?”

Jack ignored the rush of adrenaline at having finally said it out loud. He latched onto Rhys’ response instead, ignoring the nudge of emotion that was uncharacteristically tugging at the back of his mind.

Almost in spite of himself, Rhys lifted a hand over his heart. The reaction fuelled a flicker of hope within Jack — finally, a sign. But he maintained his poker face, watching as Rhys battled with his own inner demons.

“It…it’s just not the same.”

“Oh, no?” Jack tilted his head to the side. “Why? Because I’m not the  _ original _ Handsome Jack?”

“Well—”

“Have you ever used the Hyperion Fast Travel system, kitten?”

“Uh, sure. Once or twice,” Rhys frowned. “But what does that—”

Jack’s lips slipped into a tight, unamused smirk. “You really think those are all of your original particles coming out on the other end?”

“Jack.” Rhys’ eyes fluttered in disbelief; he sank back. “One existential crisis at a time, please.”

“All I’m saying is that your argument is bullshit,” he hummed. “Don’t let your insecurity, or whatever those idiots are telling you, cast doubt on my motivations.”

“I just…I can’t let you do what you did,” Rhys winced. “I’m responsible for it, Jack. These two worlds should never have collided. I guess it was my fault for naively assuming you wouldn’t access my fucking cybernetics again.”

Jack paused. Rhys was understandably pissed, sure. But not as much as he  _ should  _ have been. There was something else there, something subduing his ire. Like he had expected Jack to have done it, all along.

“I’m confused here, Rhys. Are we still arguing that I’m  _ broken?  _ Or are we arguing that I betrayed you?”

“Hah,” Rhys dug his thumb and knuckle into the bridge of his nose. “Both, apparently.”

“I’m sorry for accessing your cybernetics, kitten,” Jack apologized. “I’m not sorry about Tim.”

Rhys’s face crumpled into something  _ anguished, _ but he immediately covered it with his free hand. He leaned back into the chair, looking defeated, leaving Jack open. Moving across the room, Jack reached forward to take the empty glass out of Rhys’ hand, setting it aside. His fingers slipped through Rhys’ hair, around to the back of his head, where his locks were matted with dried blood. Rhys winced at his touch, but ultimately leaned into his palm.

“C’mon, kitten,” Jack purred. “Why don’t we shelve this for now. Let’s get you into a bath, and ol’ Jack will take care of you, huh?”

He bobbed his eyebrows in faint suggestion, and Rhys’ jaw dropped open.

“Are you kidding me?” Rhys balked. “You want to go and  _ fuck  _ right now? After what just happened?”

“Rhysie.”

Jack’s smile disappeared, replaced by a set, serious gaze. He kneeled at the foot of the sofa, slipping his broad hands across Rhys’ thighs while allowing his hungry stare to trace over his frame.

“Have you forgotten so soon?” His voice settled in a subtle, dark growl. “You’re  _ mine,  _ Rhys. All mine. Or isn’t that what you said?”

Rhys blanched. “Well, yes, but—”

“Damn it, Rhys, just tell me what you  _ want.”  _ Jack’s eyes narrowed; his hands braced against Rhys’ knees, gripping hard. “You want to be mine, but you think I’m somehow broken for wanting you back. You want me to be myself, but get pissed when I do exactly that. You need to figure your shit out, kitten, and fast.”

“I—” A flush of red flourished across Rhys’ cheeks. He sheepishly turned his gaze away from where Jack crouched between his legs, awash with shame. “I know. I fucked up. I pursued this fantasy without considering the real life consequences. But that doesn’t change that we need to figure this out.”

“Maybe not. But stop pretending I’m someone I’m not,” Jack growled. “I love you, Rhysie. And this tantrum of yours isn’t going to change that.”

Rhys’ breath snagged in his throat. He met Jack’s gaze, going still.

“You…what?”

“I love you, you friggin’ idiot,” Jack snarled, rising onto his haunches to meet Rhys’ eye level. “Okay, so — sure. Maybe I thought it was the same thing. Maybe I thought I was infatuated for the same reasons you did. But when I saw you on the floor of your office…”

Jack’s voice briefly broke. He ignored it. Ignored a lot of what he was doing, really. It wasn’t logical, wasn’t  _ him.  _ But it was true. The moment he’d realized Rhys was hurt, was  _ bleeding,  _ his priorities had immediately shifted. It became crystal clear in a startling instant, that it was more than obsession, corruption. It was something he hadn’t felt since  _ long _ before Elpis, before he was even known as  _ Jack. _

Rhys stared heavily back at him, lips parted in silent wonder. He seemed frozen, like any movement would spook Jack into running away, into abandoning his admission. Jack groaned, dragging his hands over his face. For a moment he simply watched Rhys, wordlessly scanning over the younger man in some conflicted headspace of frustration and a bizarre rush of emotions. But the longer he looked, and as Rhys cautiously returned his gaze, he felt the strange sensation in his chest only flourish.

“Alright, Rhysie. Here it is.”

He leaned forward onto his knees, reaching out to stroke Rhys’ cheek.

“There were…moments. On Pandora. When I thought that  _ maybe  _ you weren’t just a useful tool. Moments where I… _ felt  _ something,” Jack breathed. “Like when we were on top of that stupid caravan. And, well, every moment alone with you since.”

Rhys drew rigid beneath his touch.

“Point is, it was there  _ before  _ the darkness,” he uttered. “Call it what you will, Rhysie. But it doesn’t change anything. I love you, kiddo. And I don’t want to lose you.”

“I…Jack,” Rhys swallowed hard, digging his hands under his thighs in an attempt to steady their shaking. Jack felt the muscles in his calves tense as he leaned forward. “You…”

Rhys let loose a whine, back curling into an arch as Jack consumed his lips. Jack latched onto this minor surrender, climbing over Rhys’ hips, letting his confession become  _ real.  _ Every press of his lips, every gentle bite at his neck, every fumble of hands against skin was intoxicatingly convincing — for him as much as for Rhys. And Rhys buckled beneath Jack’s touch. As he always would. As Jack always would.

“Or your stupid socks,” Jack murmured, leaving a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Your terrible sense of humour.” Another on his chin.

“That goddamn adorable pout.” His tongue laved across Rhys’ tattoo, tracing heat over his flesh. There was no saliva, but the peculiar, electrical pulse of his touch left a line of goosebumps over Rhys’ skin.

Rhys stuttered at the loss of Jack’s weight over him, blinking in surprise to notice that Jack had maneuvered back down onto the floor. Jack slipped his hand into the pit behind Rhys’ knee, hitching his leg up, and Rhys grunted as he slid deeper against the sofa. Then Jack’s mouth was against his groin, tongue radiating warmth through the material in his slacks, and Rhys moaned in shock response. His cybernetic slipped through Jack’s hair, gripping wildly in some desperate bid to retain his composure. It did not work.

“Jack,” he gasped, pressing his other hand to his face. “We still need to talk about—”

“C’mon, kitten,” Jack hummed, nuzzling against his inner thigh. “Let’s go to the bedroom. Discuss this tomorrow, huh?”

Rhys’ head snapped back as Jack’s hand came up between his legs to palm at his stirring length beneath.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have hacked your head, kitten,” Jack bit at his inner thigh, following up with a soft, insistent kiss against the same spot. “It won’t happen again. I promise. Let me make it up to you, huh?”

“Jack…”

But just as Rhys seemed to consider his offer, the pair simultaneously flinched at a knock echoing through the room. Rhys seized up, eyes wide but too terrified to glance in the direction of the front door, while Jack merely growled, shaking his head.

_ “Incredible,” _ he snarled, staring daggers over his shoulder. “Is that him again?”

Rhys held his breath, hesitantly activating his ECHO-Eye. He didn’t want a repeat of last time, Jack imagined, of someone barging in to discover his dirty little secret.

“No,” he sighed — somewhat sadly, to Jack’s disdain. “It’s Zane. Just…keep your mouth shut, will you?”

Jack grumbled, staying where he was on the floor as Rhys moved past. He begrudgingly climbed into the sofa, eyeing the nearby bottle of scotch with frustrated restraint.  _ Couldn’t taste it, anyway. _

“Zane…”

“Atlas.”

In the narrow shape of the doorway, only pulled ajar, the silver haired operative came into view. Flynt gave a sharp nod to Rhys, but his visible eye had found Jack, locked onto him. Jack gave him an unfriendly wink in return. “You okay to talk?”

“I…” Rhys leaned against the doorframe. “I’m not sure if—”

“Not here to give you shite, Rhys,” Flynt raised his arms. “Just lookin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

“I…” Rhys paused. “Okay. Yeah. Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.”

_ For fuck’s sake— _

Jack kept quiet, waiting for the operative to drop some ridiculously unintelligible greeting upon striding into the room. But Flynt simply moved for the bar, disappearing behind it briefly before coming up with a bottle of something chilled. A translucent melee weapon appeared, a dual hook shape attached to his forearm, which sent the bottle cap flying before he sank into place on a bar stool opposite. He took a long, heavy swig, and dropped the bottle onto the counter in a dull  _ clunk. _ Then, and only then, did he settle his gaze back on Jack.

“…hey there, Jacky boy.”

Jack felt his mask tug into something halfway between annoyance and amusement. He glanced toward Rhys, who had slowly, reluctantly returned to the living room, but yet lingered at a distance.

“Flynt,” Jack hummed, leaning back against the sofa, feeling his hands burn. “Long time. Working for Atlas now, I see.”

“Well, Hyperion’s still got a bounty out for me,” Flynt smirked. “But yeah. Helped out durin’ the Maliwan invasion, and Rhys offered me a couple jobs after that, so I stuck around.”

“Cute.” Jack shot Rhys a look. “So much for being retired.”

“Well, yeh know me. Can never resist savin’ a damsel in distress.”

Rhys blinked, watching with some quiet awe at the relatively peaceful exchange. “Wait. Am I the damsel?”

“Yes,” the two answered simultaneously, without taking their eyes off one another. Rhys gestured exhaustively with an arm before returning to the living room to find his scotch.

“But seein’  _ you  _ on Promethea,” Flynt breathed. “Now that’s somethin’ different.”

“I don’t exactly have control over my mobility at the moment,” Jack rolled his eyes. “In case you didn’t notice.”

“Aye,” Flynt nodded. “So slippin’ into Rhys was yer only option, huh?”

Rhys visibly stiffened, just as he pressed a freshly filled glass to his lips.

“You got something to say, Flynt?” Jack growled, tightening his grip where his hands rested on the sofa.

“Yeah.”

Flynt finished his beer, sliding it across the surface of the bar. And suddenly, his demeanour shifted; any hint of camaraderie disappeared from his tone, leaving Jack bristling defensively.

“AI or not, you’re Jack all right. So I’m not surprised by what yeh pulled today. But that don’t mean I’m not gonna put a stop to that shite.”

“Oh, really?” Jack’s jaw tightened.

“You’re obviously important to Rhys,” Flynt nodded. “And I’m not here to give either of yeh the third degree. I’m just here to check on him. But I need yeh to know, Jack — you try to hurt  _ any _ of my friends again,  _ including _ Rhys, I’ll put a second bullet in yer skull, and this time, you won’t be coming back.”

Jack’s lips lifted into a sneer. He opened his mouth, tasting the heady, delicious sting of a threat collecting on the tip of his tongue, but wavered. Rhys was staring at him, eyes wide in that doe-like fashion, and Jack felt his hostility ebb ever slightly.

_ Goddamn it. _

“…yeah, whatever.”

To be fair, it was more than he’d expected. And upon glancing at Rhys, he realized that the understanding that at least  _ one  _ of his friends was still on his side noticeably improved his mood.

“Fine. Have your stupid talk.” Jack rose and slipped toward Rhys, tugging him into a hug before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Come to bed when you’re done, kitten.”

“Uh.” Rhys blinked. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks, Jack. I’ll be in soon.”

Flynt gave him a curt nod as he headed toward the hallway, one that Jack returned after some hesitation. He liked Flynt, after all — he had been a cocky little shit even when they had worked together, back in the day. And if Rhys had someone even  _ remotely  _ supportive of Jack’s presence, then, well, all the better.

Not that  _ Jack _ needed that. Definitely not.

He sighed dramatically upon moving into the bedroom, dropping lazily into the unmade bed.

“Fuck,” he sighed, rolling onto his back. “I need to be able to  _ drink.” _

* * *

_ What a fucking mess. _

Rhys leaned onto his elbows on the balcony railing, losing himself in the glow of the city’s lights. His head was in chaos, a swirl of regret, worry, desire, and something else that had completely taken him by surprise. The image of Jack’s face lingered in his mind — of that  _ genuine  _ look etched into his features as he confessed his feelings. They’d both been wrong, after all. He wasn’t some twisted version of his former self. He was just… _ Rhys’. _

Despite the quiet thrill coursing through his veins, this did not, in fact, make his life easier. If anything, with the combination of Timothy’s earlier concession, it made everything that much more confusing. And with the revealed betrayal —  _ no,  _ not betrayal,  _ revelations — _ he wasn’t sure where he was left standing with  _ anyone  _ other than Jack.

“Hell,” Rhys closed his eyes, pressing against the railing. “What a shit show.”

“Yeah…been a day, eh?”

Zane gave a stiff pat on his back before joining him at his side. His presence was reassuring, in its own way, and not simply for the fact that Zane was always just charming as hell and impossibly unfazed. It was that it meant Rhys wasn’t  _ alone. _

“I gotta apologize, by the way,” Zane started, and Rhys’ head swivelled around in shock. “Felt pretty useless earlier. Ashamed I didn’t catch on sooner.”

“Oh.” Rhys snorted, giving a futile gesture. “How could you have known? I have to admit, though, I’m happy to see you. I wasn’t sure any of you would want to talk to me again.”

“I couldn’t hold it against you,” Zane offered. “We all have our ghosts. The same one for a few a’ you, apparently.”

“Well, I’m glad you aren’t judging me for that cluster fuck,” Rhys smirked humourlessly. “Even though I deserve it. How’s Zero?”

“Ah, he’s Zero,” Zane chuckled. “Cool as a four fingered cucumber. He’ll forgive yeh in no time. I mean, if he’s even mad at all. Hard to tell with that one.”

“I can only hope,” Rhys wavered. “And…Tim?”

At this, Zane’s response noticeably lagged. He scratched at his chin, tracing fingertips through his beard in thought.

“Not great. But he didn’t run. I let him take my room on the Sanctuary Three for now. The distance will give him some room to breathe.”

“That’s,” Rhys gazed skyward, as if he could see the distant ship somewhere far above. “Good. That he didn’t leave, I mean. Good.”

“He’ll need some reassuring,” Zane continued. “That you didn’t do this to hurt him, or nothin’ like that.”

“Of  _ course _ I didn’t.”

“But give him time, and hopefully he’ll come around.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Rhys grimaced. “I fucked up. Bad. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“Oh, I can tell what you were thinking.”

Rhys shot Zane a dark look, recalling the angry suggestion Timothy had thrown at him earlier. But there was no indication of mockery in Zane’s expression — only a small smile. Understanding.

“Oh?”

“Bit nauseating in there,” Zane grinned. “But heck, you two looked like a  _ couple. _ I have  _ never  _ seen Jack  _ kiss  _ anyone before, much less stop running his gob for five minutes in consideration of anyone’s feelings.”

Rhys blushed furiously, turning his head away. “Ah. Yeah. He’s…”

Well, shit. He’d made many grand assumptions about Jack’s behaviour in his office.  _ Love  _ was not one of them. Not until he’d said it himself.

He  _ loved  _ him. And Rhys wanted intensely to utter it back. But the flesh around his neural port still stung where Jack had jabbed the input several times in his haste to plug back into the digistruct device.

“What am I going to do, Zane?”

“Well, don’t let Jack wander off on his own for a while,” Zane punched his arm. “Give Zero a couple days. But just do yer thing, Atlas. Get back to kicking arse at work to distract yourself for a while.”

“But what about Tim?”

“I’ll take him on a few jobs. Let ‘im cool down a bit. He just needs time to process.”

“If only it were that simple,” Rhys winced. “I know what betrayal feels like. It’s not something you just  _ work _ through.”

“Maybe,” Zane shrugged. “Or maybe he’ll see it wasn’t betrayal.”

“So what was it?”

“A lonely man looking to fill that void in his chest,” Zane gently shook his shoulder. “You know. The same thing the rest of us are doin’.”

Rhys stared blankly into the cityscape below, as fresh emotion stirred in his chest.

“Zane…” he breathed. “Why are you doing this? Helping me?”

“Yeh do some dumb stuff, but I like you, Rhys. You’re fine by me,” Zane smirked. “Plus, uh… I might’ve pushed Tim toward yeh. Thought the two a’ you would be good for each other. Didn’t know playin’ matchmaker would end up with someone almost gettin’ offed.”

“Ah…you did, huh?” Rhys’ heart clenched. “I knew Tim was interested. But not to that extent…”

“You’re both adorably ridiculous together, yeh have to admit,” Zane chuckled. “But if I knew the complications, I wouldn’t have…”

“Forget it,” Rhys laughed weakly. “Not a lot you can do to prepare for your boss falling for an AI.”

“Don’t do that,” Zane gave him a stern look. “I’m not judgin’ you for caring for an AI, Rhys. An inorganic body doesn’t mean they aren’t a person.”

“I…” Rhys blinked. “That’s progressive of you.”

“I work with Flak, for feck’s sake. And they’ve saved my arse a time or two, just like Amara n’ Moze. Makes no difference. I’d have to be a hypocrite to look at what you’re doin’ and turn my nose up at it.”

Rhys opened his mouth, searching for words of thanks, but stopped. Instead, he turned, folding his arms around the operative’s midsection, and Zane chuckled, drawing Rhys into a tight hug.

“Thanks,” Rhys murmured into the coarse material of his jacket. “I think I needed that.”

“No stress, boyo.”

“I guess Tim doesn’t see it that way, though…”

Zane hummed into his hair. “Tim’s got other grievances. He’ll forget the AI aspect in no time.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“You’ll either sit those two down and work it out, or yeh go separate ways,” Zane suggested. “Just make sure whatever comes of it is what  _ you  _ want.”

_ What  _ I  _ want. _

“That’s the problem, I guess,” Rhys sighed, gazing over his shoulder to his suite. To  _ their  _ suite. And briefly the image of Timothy’s scarred, deformed face flashed in his mind.

“What  _ do _ I want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have zero consistency with the "yehs" and "yers" around Zane. But hell, as long as you can still read it, then I'm fine with that.
> 
> Okay, boys, that's enough of the _talking_ and the _dumb emotions._  
>  Let's get some real goddamn conflict goin', huh?


	10. Repentance

To the shock of absolutely no one, Pandora had not changed in the least in the last seven years. While he had suspected it during his previous visit, Timothy hadn’t been allowed much time to consider, reluctant as he was to sniff around once he’d spied the  _ in memorium  _ statue of the late Crimson Raider, Roland, upon arrival. But now that he was free to wander, to get his hands dirty, it quickly became clear that it was still a shit-heap of a planet, where visitors could expect blistering heat, perilous sandstorms, and shirtless locals screaming mindlessly while swinging buzzsaw axes through the air. He supposed that the only difference he could notice was the addition of certain phrases to the bandits’ repertoire — demanding that he and Zane  _ abide _ and  _ submit. _ It was almost as if they were naive to the deaths of their leaders, or in denial.

The adoption of a cult mindset  _ did _ however come as some surprise to Timothy. The local populace had always been so off their rockers that he never imagined any collective thought existing amongst them, much less the mass organization of a worshipping, dutiful army of sycophants. Hell, even Jack had assumed them a lost cause back in the day, or else he might’ve enlisted the same forces to assist with his original intention of—

Timothy squeezed his eyes shut, smothering the thought. He bit against the inside of his cheek as if to chide himself, to snuff out the flicker of  _ Jack.  _ It would be impossible to hide from, now that he was aware that some version of Jack yet existed, but he would do his damnedest to avoid it for the time being. Until what, or when, not even he knew, but it was a rule he was stubborn enough to try to enforce.

“Eyes open, Tim. Keep on yer toes ‘round these parts.”

The soft crunch of sand underfoot signalled Zane’s proximity; Timothy lifted his head to watch the operative move past. He almost expected a grin, or a cocky wink, but Zane was entirely focussed — had been since they had arrived at the aging Dahl facility.

The location was a fair spectacle even from a distance. The first thing that had appeared on the horizon, as their borrowed outrunner tore across the poorly maintained, shale roadways, were the massive, towering cranes that lurked like natural formations across the desert vistas. Soon, the site itself came into view — some sort of old Dahl refinery, built into the cliffside above a yawning, terraced mining operation that split the land in two. As with most abandoned Dahl facilities, a series of decrepit bandit encampments had been thrown together over the rusting debris. But as they came close, certain distinctions began to stand out.

The skulls on spikes and misspelled signs were typical. The messages, however, sent a peculiar chill down Timothy’s back. Haphazard billboards demanding  _ witness  _ of the  _ truth  _ confronted the pair at every turn, leaving him feeling oddly unsettled.

“The twins are dead, right?”

Zane paused mid-step to glance his way, halfway up a ramp to the next section of the facility.

“Yeah. Spectacularly.”

Timothy gazed down to the Crossroad in his hands, frowning his uncertainty.

“So what are we doing here?”

“Well,” Zane lifted a hand to absently scratch at his beard. “It’s a mining operation, Tim. We’re mining.”

The operative chuckled at his look of disdain.

“Kidding,  _ shite, _ loosen up a bit. I picked up an anonymous contract for a former COV loyalist that supposedly moved back in recently. Sounds like he’s settin’ up operations around the great vault again, so I figured it prudent to pay a visit.”

_ Vault.  _ Timothy covered up his very real shiver of unease by heading up the ramp after his friend. “So you’ve been here before?”

“Yup, some time ago. We cleared out most of the cultists and Eridian tech, but this was a pretty important site of worship for the crazy bastards. So on top of the bounty, Tannis suggested we eliminate any remaining factions before they have the chance to start spreadin’ again.”

“Why would they remain faithful?”

“Yeah, yeh’d think that their gods provin’ to be painfully  _ mortal  _ would be enough fer them to jump ship,” Zane grunted. “But I suppose there was never any real logic to it. After all — their god queen was  _ feedin’  _ on ‘em, and they didn’t seem to care.”

“Fair.”

As they proceeded, guns held ready in the crook of their shoulders, the area remained mostly quiet. The odd handful of psychos crawled out of their dens from time to time, but the pair of vault hunters put them down with as many bullets, efficiently eradicating the remaining infestation as they pushed through the facility. However, it all felt fairly reminiscent of old Pandora — bandits just  _ existing _ amidst the decay. Nothing to warrant special concerns.

They continued on through the industrial yards, and an impressive “Children of the Vault” sign caught Timothy’s attention far overhead, bordered as it was by the spewing refinery flames. He had to give it to the cult — they had an impressive style, barbaric as it was. Between the vigil-like candles still impossibly lit throughout, and the stained glass murals that required more than a small amount of artistic ability, it wasn’t difficult to understand the allure. Inundating lonely, lost subjects with messages of  _ family,  _ of  _ belonging,  _ painted over with admittedly spectacular imagery was bound to stick, to a certain extent.

When the two advanced inside a sheltered area, and Zane set to the task of destroying and collecting various piles of eridium shards, Timothy found himself wandering over to rows of cathedral pews, all of which were directed toward cardboard cutouts of the gods backlit by neon halos. And all around, attached to the ceiling overhead, were glowing screens, presumably vessels of further instruction to the adoring devoted.

But now, they remained stuck on standby — for the gods were dead, and their message with them.

Timothy gently lowered himself into one of the pews, turning to watch Zane move between rail carts as he collected the abandoned, alien minerals.

“Question for you, Flynt.”

“Aye.”

“Well…it’s been almost a week.”

“Not sure that’s a question, boyo.”

Zane didn’t even lift his head, leaning over a cart to scoop up whatever was hidden inside. Timothy allowed his question to hang for a moment, growing heavy on his tongue.

“Why haven’t you brought up Atlas?”

Much to his surprise, the operative didn’t even flinch. He shuffled his gun in his grip, lowering shards to his hip where they deconstructed into his inventory device.

“Why would I?”

Timothy had not anticipated the flourish of irritation in his chest, but it was there regardless. Because he wasn’t supposed to care — he  _ didn’t  _ care. And yet Zane’s apathy toward the subject left him quirking a brow in impatience.

“Oh, you know,” he gave a small growl. “The massive, psychopathic elephant in the room?”

Zane gave no immediate answer, gesturing with a nod to the next area. With an eye-roll, Timothy climbed to his feet, hefting his submachine gun to follow after. The operative slowed after descending to a roadway, peering through wooden slats nailed up across a doorway on his right.

“There’s a chest ‘round here. I just know it.”

“Don’t you have enough guns?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A sharp jerk of his hooked, illuminated blades made quick work of the slats. Up the stairs in the adjacent room were a series of bunks, at the end of which were storage chests where Zane collected a healthy bounty of ammunition. Timothy caught a few of the SMG cartridges tossed his way, pocketing them in a smooth motion.

“I just thought you’d try to convince me to go back,” he continued, like the conversation hadn’t been expertly dodged. “That I was making some kind of mistake.”

“Not sure what yeh mean,” Zane snorted, stashing away a handful of grenades. “Kinda nice just having yeh around again.”

“I mean—” Timothy exhaled in frustration. “With Rhys.”

At last, Zane turned to give him an indecipherable look. He turned over the rifle in his hands, seeming to chew on the thought.

“What do you want to hear?” he asked. “Yeh want me to tell yeh that Atlas is safe, regardless of that digistruct dickhead? That anywhere else yeh go, yeh risk being hunted down?”

Timothy wavered. “Well…”

“Ah figured that was a given,” Zane shrugged. “Do yeh  _ need  _ it to be said?”

“No, but I—” Timothy sneered. “You’re  _ always _ ready and raring to give me advice. Why so silent on it now?”

“Yeh don’t need assurances.” Zane led him down another set of stairs, past a collection of more cardboard cutouts leaning against the wall. “Yeh need time.”

“Time for what?”

“To figure yer crap out. Ah!”

In the back of the room they discovered Zane’s intended target — a rather impressive red chest. He immediately dropped to a knee, snapping open the locks. As it sprang to life, a puff of air escaped, and a shiny set of guns were revealed. Zane rubbed his hands together in glee, lifting his ECHO in a check of the various stats.

“I  _ have _ my crap figured out,” Timothy grumbled, pressing his back to the wall as Zane picked through the loot. “It’s  _ Rhys _ that needs to get his together.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re kidding, right? The kid’s in a relationship with a psychotic AI. How does that happen?”

“S’not just any AI, to be fair. Jack’s charismatic as hell. Even when he’s bein’ a total knob.”

“Fuck,” Timothy pressed a hand to his brow in disbelief. “Did  _ you  _ suck his digistructed cock, too?”

At this, Zane stiffened. He rose off his haunches, hovering over the open chest before setting a heavy gaze over his shoulder. Something odd caught in Timothy’s throat, a defence he couldn’t quite command.

“It’s fine for you to have yer issues with Jack,” Zane breathed. “If I had been in yer shoes, I would feel the same. But Rhys isn’t yer enemy. In fact, he’s one of the few left willin’ and  _ happy  _ to give a Jack double a chance at a new life.”

“Yeah,” Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “Because I reminded him of his old fuck buddy.”

“Didn’t yeh used to have a thing for Moxxi?” Zane snorted. “Though I seem to recall yeh mentioned she almost offed you and yer team back in the day. And she sure didn’t seem to give a shite when Pretty Boy had yeh picked up and tortured for that hand a’ yers. Yeh weren’t exactly the top of her list a’ priorities.”

Timothy felt his cybernetic twitch in reply. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Zane strode across the room, closely scanning Timothy’s face. “Sounds about as toxic to me.”

“At least Moxxi is  _ real.” _

“Ah, yeah. Makes it easier to be a simp when yer object of fascination is flesh n’ blood.”

“You—” Timothy’s lips picked up into a snarl. “Fuck  _ you, _ Zane. This isn’t the same, and you know it.”

“All I know is that yeh got yer heart broken, and now yer poutin’ about it,” Zane snapped back. “And that sucks, boyo. It does. I’m  _ sorry. _ I was rootin’ for you two. But Rhys cares about Jack, and that’s that.”

_ That’s that.  _ Like it was simple. Like it explained everything. Like it made up for everything.

“I—” Timothy lowered his head. “He tricked me, Zane. He betrayed me.”

“He did no such thing. Because it had nothin’ to  _ do  _ with you.”

Zane sighed. He reached out, gripping his shoulder, and despite himself, Timothy couldn’t help but lean into his support. The operative had his back — he accepted this now. And as hard as it was to hear, there was a shred of reality in his words.

“Should he have told you? Yes. Did he go about it the wrong way? Absolutely. But he didn’t do any of it to hurt you, Tim. If anythin’, he went out of his way to protect you.”

The image of Jack’s splintered, deconstructed face briefly flashed in his mind.

“And he knows he fucked up. Hell, he even seemed to be second guessin’ himself, last I spoke with ‘im.”

Timothy cautiously met Zane’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say you weren’t the only one pissed off about what happened in his office.”

Well, that was fair. Jack had hacked his body, an invasion Timothy couldn’t even begin to understand. And Rhys was begging, by the end. The deception and fear of the moment had left Timothy reeling at the time, but he still managed to catch the exchange between Rhys and Jack in those last few moments of consciousness.

_ If you kill Tim, I don’t know what I’ll do. But it will be the end of this. Of us. _

And then Rhys had  _ shot  _ Jack. Which, admittedly, meant  _ nothing  _ in terms of doing physical harm to the digistruct. It was a gesture — an action that Timothy had tried to forget in lieu of feeling outraged. But he couldn’t ignore it forever, because it meant something  _ significant. _

Rhys  _ did  _ care.

“Hell,” he sagged.

Zane chuckled softly. “Tell me about it.”

“So what do I do?”

“Yeh help me clear out this facility,” Zane smirked. “Then yeh go home, and talk it out.”

_ Home.  _ Timothy winced. Was such a thing possible, with Jack involved? He had serious doubts, but what other option was there?

As the silence between the pair extended, Zane shifted, seemingly content with the conversation’s end. He patted Timothy’s shoulder, then turned, making for the stairwell leading back up to the barracks. As he climbed, Timothy’s stare followed his shape in the dim light.

“…Zane.”

“Yeah?” He paused, gazing back down at where Timothy yet lingered.

“…you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Timothy asked quietly. “You knew I’d bring it up if you didn’t.”

A telling, shit-eating grin slipped across the operative’s narrow face.

“Don’t know what yer talkin’ about, Tim,” he winked. “But I’m glad yeh got it off yer chest.”

Somehow, Timothy had trouble restraining his own grin.

“You dick.”

“Yeh love it.”

“Yeah. I do.” Timothy shifted between his feet, biting at his lower lip with a flourish of shame. “For a self-described loner, you’re a pretty damn good friend.”

Zane gave him a pointed look as he continued his way back up the ramp — almost the equivalent of childishly sticking out one’s tongue.

“Try not to sound so surprised by that.”

Timothy allowed himself to laugh, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how tight they had become, anxiety creeping across his muscles in anticipation. Like he’d expected a fight. Or worse — like he would be told he was in the wrong.

Which, well, wasn’t far off. Zane had a very neutral stance on the situation. It had initially irritated Timothy, when he’d wanted someone mutually outraged on his side. But as the week progressed, and he was given time to process, to think things through, he was starting to discover that he wasn’t as pissed off as he had expected.

Jack was still a massive asshole, though. So there was that.

“Let’s keep going.”

They passed back through the slapdash bandit quarters in a casual stride, but upon returning to their route, fell into the same disciplined routine. It was unspoken: a transition for both of the vault hunters in which they dropped into lower stances, swept their path with raised guns, and kept their heads up for potential hostiles. Just another thing to appreciate about Zane — he knew how to do his goddamn job, and he did it well. In fact, for the few exchanges they had with psychos throughout the facility, he had definitely been quicker to put his targets down, though it was starting to become an unspoken competition.

The next section, just past the covered roadway, was an open excavation pit of some kind. It was abandoned, like most of the operation, but there were telltale signs of the fight that had once taken place here. At the centre rested a busted down dump truck, sagging on its deflated treads. Beyond, on a hill that climbed around the outside to what appeared to be a utility control area overhead, were the remains of a downed Maliwan drop ship — scorched metal that marred the landscape. But what caught Timothy’s attention the most was the bizarre, humanoid head built overtop a passageway that seemed to descend lower into the facility.

Jagged, steel teeth bordered a gaping maw, from which a cloth banner serpentined on the air like a bizarre tongue. Above, twin jets released flames from its eyes, and even at a distance, Timothy could feel the dramatic rise in heat given off by the massive display. It was honestly an impressive piece of artwork, all things considered. Even if it was all, well,  _ a bit much. _

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “When did they have time to build all this crap?”

“I stopped askin’ questions after  _ Carnivora,” _ Zane barked a laugh, though it sounded oddly defeated. “C’mon. The altar is up ahead. If they’re not there, they’re at the vault itself.”

Timothy followed Zane’s lead across the open ground, but there was a slight lag in his step.

“I, uh…” he swallowed awkwardly. “Zane, I’m not sure I can approach the vault.”

Zane remained alert, moving with purpose, but spared a curious look over his shoulder.

“Eh? What’s the trouble?”

“Just some bad experiences,” Timothy admitted quietly, keeping pace as they crossed the pit. “I made it out unscathed, but Jack… And, well, being his body double…”

Just before the passageway, where a sign ironically flashed “Salvation” over a set of massive, spinning saw blades, Zane stopped long enough to give Timothy a knowing look.

“Yeah,” he nodded softly. “I saw yer face. Sorry, boyo.”

Timothy winced, lowering his gaze. “It’s fine. I just…”

“Hard to look at Eridian shite again. I get it. Don’t worry. I won’t make you head down there.”

“Thanks, bro.”

Zane turned as if to continue, but immediately glanced back, expression twisted.

“Did you just—”

“Fuck, I know,” Timothy laughed. “You gotta admit, it just  _ sticks.” _

Beyond the series of spinning blades, beyond the litany of unrecognizable corpses riddled with eridium spikes, they finally arrived. The pair remerged back into daylight, and ascended to the Altar of the Twins.

It was just as impressive as the rest. Statues of the sirens stood at the lower side of the area, well sculpted and looming. It wasn’t difficult to imagine their followers crouched here, heads bent in reverie, for not only was the aesthetic overwhelming, but the knowledge of what lurked ahead was just as intoxicating. Even without seeing the vault, Timothy could feel its pull, and it had his skin crawling with worry. That, and the fact that the area was just as abandoned as the rest of the facility.

“Shite.” Zane moved toward the statues, between which was an open pipe presumably leading to the vault below, only to linger, gazing about in defeat. “Well, either my intel is crap, or they’re down at the site.”

Timothy’s hands clenched at his weapon. While there were no signs of enemies, there were certainly indications of recent activity. New, unopened weapons crates. Relatively fresh footprints. Not much, but enough to raise red flags.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” he frowned. “Why does it feel  _ weird?” _

“Couldn’t say,” Zane scanned the higher walkways flanking the altar, brow furrowed. “But I feel it, too.”

The pair were descended upon by a markedly eerie silence. Nothing more than a gentle breeze ushered past their feet, kicking up the barest dust and sending frayed banners fluttering about. The sunlight overhead filtered beyond a scattered cloud layer to cast long shadows over the altar, darkening the faces of the looming statues overhead. A resulting shiver of anxiety embraced Timothy’s spine, trickling down his back as he surveyed his surroundings.

Zane had left his side to assess the drainage pipe. With his boot set against the lip, he leaned forward to peer over the edge, as though he might hear or see something stirring in the depths below. When he gave a shrug, Timothy’s stomach turned over yet again.

“Are you sure you want to go alone?”

The operative gestured to the digistruct trigger on his hip, giving a cocky grin.

“I’m never alone, boyo. Don’t yeh worry. And I can handle a couple a’ cultists. You stay here and watch my back, in case any more decide to join the party.”

“Yeah…” Timothy gazed to his right, noticing a pathway leading around the outside of the area to the higher walkways flanking the altar. “Okay, sure. I’ll get up high. Wait for your return.”

“It’s a ways down, so don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear anything,” Zane grunted, crouching in anticipation of the jump. “Shouldn’t be long.”

“Look after yourself down there, Flynt.”

Zane gave pause long enough to meet his gaze, the skin around his eyes wrinkling slightly with his reassuring smile.

“Back atcha.  _ Bro.” _

And then he was gone. The shadows swallowed his frame in an instant, followed by a distant impact somewhere below. Timothy stared in mild surprise at the place where he had disappeared, stunned that his departure seemed to instil a fresh uneasiness within him beyond what already existed. It was only then that he realized that Zane was his tether — his safety line. And now, he was alone.

The doppelgänger shook his head, a half-hearted attempt to alleviate the pressure gripping his core, and turned on the path to his right. It led him up a ramp to the higher level, past yet another graffitied image of the twin gods. He had slowed ever slightly to give it a scan, wondering quietly if the red splashed amongst the primarily black and white image could possibly be  _ blood,  _ before he continued up to higher ground.

Upon approaching the ledge overlooking the steps descending to the altar, Timothy took up position beside a stack of loudspeakers. He crouched in the shadows there, a vantage point from which he could spy the entrance and the altar both. He wasn’t certain how Zane intended to climb back out of the drain pipe when he returned, but that was a matter to deal with later. For now, all he had to do was watch, and wait.

Oh, and try not to  _ think. _

But in the absence of any real distraction, the only thing he found to keep his mind off  _ the obvious _ was what lurked further down the walkway, not far to his right. Just beyond the ledge, past the altar, were the dizzying heights of the mine, far below. His stomach lilted at the sight, as it  _ always  _ would. However, it wasn’t simply the impossible distance between himself and the ground below that sent his head in a spin. It was the foreboding glow of purple in the cracked earth below. Though it was all he could see from his position, the rest was supplied easily by his scumbag, ruminating brain.

Eridian statues. Haunting glyphs. A massive, alien archway.

Timothy wouldn’t say that he was  _ traumatized  _ by the events on Elpis — not like he was by seven years at the Jackpot. As he had freely admitted before, he had actually learned a lot about himself after having been thrust into Jack’s war with the Lost Legion. No, it wasn’t the killing, nor the close brushes with death that clung to him. It had more to do with what followed. The years and years of nothing but  _ regrets. _

Timothy considered himself a coward. Always had. Regardless of his ability, of how well he performed in a firefight — he was not what he’d call  _ brave.  _ Sure, he could fend off his share of highly trained soldiers. He could eliminate the baddest of badass psychos. He even had a handful of Eridian Guardian defeats under his belt. But when it came to Jack…he was weak. He had surrendered himself and everything he had ever known to the man, and all for a job. To pay off his goddamn student loans. And  _ fuck me,  _ he couldn’t even remember what he had gone to college for in the first place.

It was a lifetime ago. A life before Handsome Jack.

And this is where the frustration set in. The denial. The goddamn hypocrisy. Because he couldn’t fault Rhys for what he had done. In fact, if Jack hadn’t died, there was a very real possibility that Timothy would still be working for the man  _ to this day.  _ The contract wouldn’t have been over, after all. And Timothy had never had any intentions of  _ trying _ to quit. Before the lockdown, his job at the Jackpot was cushy as hell. It wasn’t until that massive chode went and got himself murdered by vault hunters, effectively abandoning Timothy, that the regret became real.

So, yes. He was just as guilty when it came to enabling Handsome Jack. And he only needed to look into a mirror to remind himself of that fact.

As this thought passed through his mind, Timothy sighed, tracing a finger across the clasp on his left temple. Zane was right. Rhys hadn’t tried to betray him. He just got caught up in the chaos that was Jack.

_ I wonder if— _

The sound that escaped Timothy’s lips was somewhere between a groan and a bark of annoyance. He dragged a hand over his brow, internally rebuking himself. This wasn’t him — wasn’t the highly trained mercenary from years ago. Back in the day, the jobs went smoothly. He didn’t have the time, and certainly not the inclination, to dwell on his personal life when peering down the barrel of a gun. But now, he was rusty. He was distracted. And in moments of solitude such as this, his mind would invariably pull him kicking and screaming back to dwell on thoughts of  _ Atlas. _

_ Do it. Just get it over with. _

Timothy let his gun rest on the ground, tipping his head forward to glare down at his ECHO device. He initially resisted, chewing on his lip in thought, but inevitably caved, plucking it up from his hip. When the screen winked on, it opened to the same interface on which he’d left it, hours before. Rhys’ name was already highlighted.

Several minutes elapsed as he considered his message. When his thumbs eventually and clumsily typed it out, he was no less certain of what he was about to send, but he fired it off regardless.

**_I think we should talk._ **

_ Fuck. _ Was this what it felt like to be a teenager again? Sweating bullets over an awkward, simple message — waiting with baited breath to see how it would play out? Timothy rolled his eyes at the rush of youth-like angst, burying his face into the crook of his elbow. He wasn’t even sure that Rhys would respond, much less—

He received a ping almost immediately. In fact, he received  _ several.  _ And they were clearly typed out rapid-fire, brimming with what Timothy cautiously read as unspoken excitement.

**_Oh gods yeah hey Tim_ **

**_Yes just tell me when and where_ **

**_Glad to hear from you_ **

And there was that rush of endorphins. A swell of  _ oh, thank god,  _ and hesitation to respond as to not seem too eager. Timothy bit his cheek to stifle a grin, and scanned the messages several times over before responding.

**_You’re hanging out with Zer0, aren’t you?_ **

Possibly too cryptic?  _ At least it doesn’t sound desperate.  _ A few seconds passed. Then another three messages rolled in.

**_??_ **

**_Oh hah. Sorry._ **

**_Worst haiku ever._ **

His hand fumbled across his face, as if to conceal his ever widening smile. Rhys Strongfork, the CEO of the incredibly successful Atlas…would always be a massive dork. And Timothy couldn’t get enough of it, even when he was supposed to be pissed off. For a few minutes, he let the messages hang, eyes dancing across the text. After all that had happened, there would remain an impulse of concern. To approach the situation warily, to wonder if it was  _ really  _ Rhys on the other end.

But he couldn’t deny the warmth in his chest upon reading and rereading the messages. And when he typed his final reply, he pressed the send button without any hint of delay.

**_Have to finish up some things with Zane. But I’ll be home soon._ **

And Rhys’ response was just as quick.

**_Looking forward to it._ **

With the ECHO device clipped back into his belt, Timothy leaned forward to press his elbows against his knees. He cupped his face, breathing heat over his cheeks, letting a soft groan loose past his fingers.

This was foolish. He was chasing a pipe dream — the same, distant illusion he’d been pursuing since he had first arrived at Atlas and fallen for his new employer. And now that the truth had been revealed, that Rhys was with  _ Jack,  _ that they actually seemed to  _ care  _ for one another, it seemed like an even greater impossibility that Timothy’s feelings would ever be returned.

But it was just as he had told Jack. Rhys, for all his faults, had still defeated Jack — had still risen above the role that Handsome Jack had chosen for him to play. How could Timothy not admire that, even now? Hell, he was slowly becoming certain that it was the same damn reason that  _ Jack  _ cared for Rhys.

So that was that. Timothy would return to Atlas. Hear Rhys out. And if he could promise him safety —  _ distance  _ from Jack, then, well… he would simply have to be content with loving him from afar, until that love eventually faded, and he could return to some semblance of a normal life.

Timothy laughed, shaking his head. He was a goddamn hopeless romantic. And it would be the death of him.

But as he sat there, face buried in his arm, he oddly felt at peace with that knowledge. And slowly, eventually, he fell into a content lull, as the world went quiet around him.

Well — almost.

Distant voices arose, indistinct at first. Garbled as they were by the various tunnels and hallways of the facility, it was difficult for Timothy to even catch onto them. But as he remembered himself, remembered his training, and shuffled his position to favour his gun, it gave time for the hostiles to come closer, and their noise to become clear. The bizarre, tinny quality of their words became apparent; Timothy quickly recognized the distortion of helmet voice modulators, not unlike the ones in the Atlas gear.

Not simply bandits, then.

He crept forward with caution, gazing down into the courtyard below. Though he wasn’t certain what he expected — stubborn Maliwan remnants, maybe — he certainly wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Descending toward the drain pipe was a group of soldiers in sharp, reinforced armour. They were disciplined, coordinated, and there were a  _ shitload  _ of them. Timothy’s eyes followed their stark, yellow shapes, wide with alarm.

Fucking  _ Hyperion _ . What the hell were  _ they  _ doing here?

Timothy swallowed his curses, slipping back behind cover. He triggered his comm to Zane, careful to keep his voice low.

“Flynt,” he urgently whispered. “We’ve got trouble. Hyperion’s here.”

Nothing but static greeted him. Lost in the vault, perhaps. Or facing down a similar threat.

Timothy sank back, crawling across the concrete to draw away from the ledge, from sight. But as he turned to gaze about the area, to spy a better hiding place, he came face to face with a bright light, which shone in blinding red across his mask.

A quick thrust of his SMG against the Hyperion surveyor brought it crashing down to the ground in a swift movement. But whether by the machine itself sending off an alert, or simply the sound of it breaking against the cement, his position was compromised.

_ “Contact!” _

“Shit.”

A hail of bullets flew high overhead; Timothy ducked as low as he could whilst remaining on his feet. Considering the amount of troopers that had appeared at the entrance of the altar area, there was no backtracking. Only forward, then. He retrieved a grenade from his belt and cooked it, visualizing the mouth of the drainpipe below. The ‘nade made a beautiful arc through the air, landing amongst a few stray soldiers that had wandered toward the lower end of the altar, and exploded with a very satisfying rupture of sound. Shrapnel ripped through the air, and the men, wrenching cries of pain and shock from the ones who had been closest.

Under whatever cover remained, Timothy performed the same precise throw with his last two grenades. He aimed them toward the larger bulk of the soldiers, forcing them to retreat back into the mouth of the hallway. And before they could muster a response, before the final grenade even went off, Timothy heaved himself over the edge, sprinting for the drainpipe.

The fall through the darkness was sufficient enough to send agonizing lances of pain up his calves. Timothy clenched his jaw, set it aside, spun to assess the room in which he had landed. To one end, on each side of the room — stairwells, and small hallways leading who knew where. At his back, a larger tunnel. He took a step toward the tunnel in haste, well aware that he hadn’t done much to stop the advancing forces above. But he jerked oddly, as though his feet were glued to the concrete. His eyes hung on the tunnel entrance, and his pulse pounded in his ears.

He knew what lurked beyond.  _ The vault. _

Despite Zane’s reassurances that there was nothing left, a unique paranoia yet gripped Timothy. Voices echoed overhead, something frantic gripped at his chest, shook him with urgency — and still he could not bring himself to head toward the tunnel. So instead, he spun, and advanced deeper into the bunker-like structure. Up the stairs, around the corner, he threw himself further into the facility.

Even here, the Children of the Vault had left their mark. Colourful graffiti was splashed across the walls. Ambient light cast peculiar shadows from bulbs strung on long, often threadbare wires. Here, it was quiet. Halfway into the cavernous room, Timothy turned, training his rifle on the direction from which he had come. He wasn’t trapped — a gentle breeze in the air indicated another exit likely on the upper catwalk. But where it would take him, he could only guess.

“Well,  _ well…  _ What are the odds?”

Timothy turned on a dime, training his weapon directly onto the source of the voice. Standing on the elevated catwalk, a figure casually lurked in the dim light. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and adrenaline surging through his veins, Timothy still managed to recognize that voice. And it filled him with utter dread.

He took a shaky step backward, breath stuttering out in disbelief. But a series of  _ clicks  _ from behind heralded the arrival of the Hyperion soldiers that had been in pursuit. Sure enough, he was surrounded — the two entrances at his back were flanked by men carrying rifles similar in design to his own. Suddenly, he felt  _ dirty  _ for having chosen the Hyperion gun.

“Don’t be childish, now. Put down your weapon.”

“You may have me outnumbered,” Timothy growled. “But I’m not going down without a fight.”

“Of  _ course _ not…”

His voice was clipped — as uptight as ever. And as he leaned forward through the darkness, emerging into the dim lighting of the room, Jeffrey Blake offered a smile, small but sinister. At his sides, more Hyperion soldiers appeared, training their guns down on the hapless double. Timothy weighed his options, feeling markedly helpless without Zane’s presence, but all he could hear in the hollow of the room was Blake’s icy chuckle.

“This is simply perfect,” he drawled. “We had only hoped for the operative. How wonderful that you showed up, instead.”

Timothy perked up, eyes widening. “You were after Flynt?”

“Don’t you concern yourself with that,” Blake tilted his head. “Especially now that we have you…we won’t need him anymore.”

Fear — distinct and suffocating — flooded Timothy’s system. The wicked, desperate reality of his new predicament came roaring into view.

He shouldn’t have left Promethea. He shouldn’t have left Atlas.

He shouldn’t have left  _ Rhys. _

“Put down the  _ gun,  _ 21C.”

_ “Fine. _ Fine. I will,” Timothy snarled. “But only if you spare Zane.”

Blake’s eyebrow slowly rose in consideration.

“…he may leave with his life,” he agreed. “If he managed to survive the constructors we placed at the vault, of course.”

_ Fuck.  _ Timothy triggered his ECHO one last time — and again, nothing.

_ Please be okay. Please, fuck, just be— _

“Come along now,  _ ‘Jack,’” _ Blake interrupted his thoughts, gesturing with a taunting, outstretched hand.

“We have work to do.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
As head of Atlas — a massive corporate entity that only achieved such a status after long years of  _ clawing  _ and  _ fighting  _ and  _ dodging obsessive assassins _ — Rhys was no stranger to his share of daunting tasks. He was more than accustomed to the harrowing prospect of devoting his attention in its entirety to such undertakings, be it navigating the cutthroat advanced weapons market amidst the well established competitors, assisting in planet-wide relief following the end of the war, and, oh — meditating the markedly tense stand off between his loyal bodyguard slash best bro and former antagonist turned lover.

In the last few days, neither Zer0 nor Jack had displayed signs of being particularly enthused at the prospect of enduring one another’s presence on an ongoing basis. It had been quiet at first, resulting in only a few bitter silences and awkward dialogue. But now, as the two stood distant from each other, separated by the space of his desk, Rhys was well aware this was another one of those such exercises in tact — one he had to carefully navigate in order to emerge unscathed on the other side.

So why couldn’t he stop checking his goddamn ECHO messages?

A pair of fingers snapping in his face tore Rhys away from staring slack-jawed into open air at the “0 unread alerts” text that was visible only to him. He blinked, met Jack’s stern gaze, and frowned.

“This circus was  _ your  _ idea, Rhysie,” Jack chided softly — obviously annoyed, but not with him. “Mind sticking around for the show?"

“Sorry,” he immediately blurted, glancing apologetically to the noticeably silent, helmeted vault hunter stiffly regarding him from his left. “Please continue.”

As Zane had suspected, Zer0 was not overly upset following the incident between Jack and Timothy. He had concerns, of course, regarding not only Timothy’s wellbeing, but Rhys’ as well. He had also expressed his doubts.

“I cannot foresee / an environment in which / we two coexist.” 

It did not spark optimism. But Zer0 remarkably also hadn’t expressed any true outrage for  _ Rhys’ _ actions — which Rhys suspected was only because he was quietly remorseful for having carried the knowledge of Rhys’ past all along (thanks again, Vaughn). For Rhys’ part, he couldn’t be upset with Zer0, either, though he was tempted to feel annoyed at having been handled with kid gloves for so long without his knowledge.

At the end of the day, Zer0 was still talking to him. And that was all that he needed — was actually a  _ relief  _ after Timothy disappeared.

And when Timothy’s messages began to roll in, an incredible amount of _calm_ surged in Rhys’ system. The messages made no promises, but it was something. It was enough. Especially with the inclusion of the word “home” in the text.

But again — the task at hand.

Rhys put away the fluttering sensation in his stomach — the one that had begun following Timothy’s gently playful replies — and sat up in his chair, as though the simple gesture would be enough to force him back into reality. He had to ignore the flicker of hope, and the realization that Zane had been right  _ yet again _ , and face the more present issue in his life.

“So here’s the deal, numb nuts,” Jack started. Because  _ really, Jack?  _ — but also —  _ of course, Jack.  _ “You and I have history. There’s no denying or forgetting any of it. But regardless of this cutesy little protective streak you’ve got over Rhysie here, I ain’t going away any time soon.”

_ Helpful. _

“What Jack is  _ trying  _ to say,” Rhys sighed in resignation. “Is that we are both aware that what happened back on Pandora has made things uncomfortable and potentially hostile for you here. And I never intended for that to happen. You know that I’d never do anything to lose you as my friend and brother.”

He paused at the tight clench in his chest, slipping fingers through his tie to relieve some of the pressure. Zer0, who had been silent and rigid up until this point, seemed to soften, back lengthening as he continued to stare solely in Rhys’ direction.

“So,  _ please.  _ Tell me what you need. So we can move forward. Without sacrificing what we’ve built together over these past years.”

Rhys kept his eyes firmly on Zer0, though he could have sworn he saw a gentle nod from Jack’s way. He swallowed softly, remaining mostly composed, though his cybernetic was slowly gripping the armrest to the point he was certain it would tear off his chair before long.

“The safety of those / under risk by his presence / is my main worry.”

“…understandable,” Rhys replied.

“I’m not some bandit piece of filth,” Jack grunted, rolling his eyes. “Not goin’ on a murdering spree here, cupcake.”

Zer0 finally tilted his head to acknowledge Jack.

“So what do you call / what you attempted to do / not six days ago?”

Tension crawled over Jack’s mask. He made another subtle glance toward Rhys — a scan of his response, no doubt — and folded his arms.

“That was different,” Jack uttered. “And I promised Rhysie it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Hm.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Jack growled. “Grovel? Get down on my friggin’ knees and ask for forgiveness? You asking me to beg you for permission to stick around?”

“That is incorrect. / I am not so dramatic / that I need that of you.”

Rhys worried at his lower lip. “If you are having trouble separating the events of the past—”

“The real Jack is dead.” Zer0 gave a short wave of his hand. “He already met his fate / for what he had done.”

_ Oh? _

Jack shifted with uncertainty. “So what do you want?”

“For me to feel safe / with you standing beside Rhys. / Simply repentance.”

Well, holy shit. Rhys almost buckled at a wave of pure  _ emotion,  _ wincing at the bizarre slip of an icy sensation through his veins. It was a peculiar response, but Zer0’s request was stunning for a whole bevy of reasons. Primarily, however, was its simplicity.

He didn't want an apology. Or for Jack to make up for what he, (or at least, the previous version of himself), had done in the past. All it would take was for Jack to  _ prove  _ himself. To show that he wasn’t the same man as the one who had wreaked havoc on Pandora.

That he was  _ Rhys’  _ Jack.

“Repentance.” Jack’s voice dipped with skepticism. But oddly enough, and much to Rhys’ surprise, he appeared to hesitate in ample thought, as if weighing it as a genuine suggestion. “And how would I pull off  _ that  _ minor miracle, cupcake?”

Zer0 briefly fell silent. After a beat passed, he turned, as though intent on the exit.

“That is up to you to figure out.”

It would always be the lack of haiku that left Zer0’s statements  _ striking.  _ It seemed to level both of them — Jack appeared just as unsettled as Rhys. And again, as if he was truly weighing his options, a sign that Jack really  _ had  _ changed, he said nothing as Zer0 departed, staring unseeing down the hallway after him.

Rhys did what he could to let the matter simmer. He couldn’t help feeling unsatisfied with the exchange, regardless of the realization that things weren’t  _ really  _ settled. But Zer0 wasn’t leaving. And no one had pulled a gun (not that Jack was  _ permitted _ a gun). So — progress, right?

Sagging back, Rhys allowed the reprieve to sink in. The tension in his forearms faded at last, providing some respite for the armrest of his chair. He pointedly ignored the scarred lines in the leather, gazing across to Jack who yet stood silently to his right.

“So…that went well. I think?”

Jack appeared almost apprehensive, allowing his stare to linger after Zer0’s exit. But he eventually turned, setting his stern expression on Rhys. He, too, seemed to relax, as he paused to gauge the small smile Rhys offered.

“Well, no one shot me through the skull,” he smirked. “So I call that a win.”

Rhys pressed his hand to his face with a groan, but couldn’t help his own grin. It was good to see Jack returning to some semblance of himself from the previous week. Since the incident with Timothy, things had been strained between the two. They had been forced back a few steps, retreating to the same uncertainties that had plagued the first days of Jack’s return. But as time went on, Rhys inevitably felt himself drawn back to the tingling warmth of Jack’s touch, to the press of his broad shoulders. He was hopelessly addicted.

To his credit, Jack had actually bridged the gap between them a few days prior. It had been a quiet night in the penthouse, with the two resting somewhat distantly on the sofa for a mindless action flick Jack had thrown on as means of distraction. The popcorn bowl had long since fallen away to the floor, and Rhys wasn’t even watching anymore, instead staring listlessly through the window beyond the screen. Jack, of course, noticed. And in the awkward air he offered something Rhys never would have anticipated.

“…you know, I always knew the exoskeleton was a dumb idea.”

Rhys shivered involuntarily at the rush of  _ uh, what? _ He shifted enough to meet Jack’s gaze, brow furrowed in confusion and a small amount of disbelief.

“Uh…” He searched his mind and came up blank. “Okay.”

“I mean, I had that thing there  _ forever,” _ Jack ignored him, scrubbing fingers through his coif. “Just useless junk under my feet, you know? Never thought it would come to that.”

“Ah. So…” Rhys looked away. “Why  _ did  _ it? What changed?”

Jack’s fingers dusted across his chin; Rhys turned his head, catching what appeared to be a shocking look of  _ affection  _ in Jack’s eyes.

“It was when you plugged into my chair, kitten.”

Well, the timing made sense. But what—

“Soon as I was back in Helios…I had access to everything. Everything I’d missed… Everything I had done,” Jack winced. “I saw what Angel had done. All that I had lost. It was an overload of information — a  _ rush  _ of shit I never imagined…and I snapped.

“On the outside, I kept my cool. Inside…I was possessed. Even getting my face melted off on Elpis didn’t come close to that. It was like my senses were overwhelmed with all of the hatred and grief and desperation that anyone could ever handle.”

“Desperation?” Rhys’ voice was small. The power of Jack’s admission was choking. But then his hand returned, thumbing across his cheekbone.

“Like I’ve been saying, I couldn’t lose like that again,” Jack murmured. “I couldn’t lose  _ you.  _ I needed to keep you, no matter the cost. And in the senselessness of it all, the only  _ sure thing _ was the goddamn suit.”

“I…”

“That’s why I attacked Tim, kiddo,” he went on. “Not a glitch. Not corruption. It was the memory of that desperation. That loss.”

“I wasn’t going to run, you know,” Rhys whimpered. “I was never going to leave you.”

“I know that, now,” Jack nodded. “But back then… I was too afraid to take that risk.”

In its own, twisted way, it was understandable. Rhys had never forgotten the way Jack spoke of Angel that day.

_ Don’t actually like people knowin’ about her. But…you and me are pretty tight. Once we’re done with all this Vault stuff, I’d like to check up on her. If that’s cool. _

To learn of her loss, of everything that preceded and followed, would’ve driven anyone mad. Even Handsome goddamn Jack’s AI.

“Jack…”

“I guess this is my way of saying ‘I’m sorry,’” Jack muttered. “For the stupid suit. And for Tim. For what it’s worth.”

A hot tear etched down Rhys’ cheek. It crossed his skin, met the corner of his lips just as they pressed to Jack’s mouth.

And that had been enough, for a while. Because that was it — the first glimpse of what Zer0 required.  _ Repentance.  _ Rhys would remain cautious, but optimistic all the same.

Pushing onto his feet, Rhys pressed his hands to the desk’s surface. Jack remained at a distance, but his hands twitched against his biceps, like he wanted to reach out. And so Rhys made the decision for him, crossing around and into his arms. They enveloped him immediately, holding him preciously close.

“You know what this means, right?”

Jack’s chuckle was humourless.

“Guess old Tim Tams and I need to chat.”

A shrill chirp from his desk sent a shockwave through Rhys’ core.

“Shit,” he laughed shakily. “I’m wound up.”

“Answer your call, kitten,” Jack hummed. “Then we’ll go get you something to eat.”

Rhys gave a smile, leaning over to activate the comm.

“Rhys Strongfork here.”

_ “Atlas.” _

Just like that, all of the tension returned. It wasn’t difficult to recognize Zane’s unique voice, even crushed as it was by what sounded like a considerable amount of pain and breathlessness. 

“Zane,” he edged forward. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he croaked, though the hiss in his voice argued to the contrary. “We got a problem, boyo.”

“What happened? Where are you?”

“Pandora. Feckin’ contract. It was all a  _ trap.” _

_ “Where _ on Pandora? What—”

“Rhys,” Zane choked. “Hyperion has Tim.”

And all at once, the world ceased to spin. Rhys froze in place. And Jack, well—

  
Jack looked fucking  _ livid. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience. Been going through big life changes.  
> Hope you like the latest addition.
> 
> I probably go over the same emotional topics with these characters, but as I only update this occasionally it can be hard to remember what I've covered and what I haven't. Oh, well!
> 
> As always, thank you for your comments. I reread them often.


	11. What You Give

_I know this place._

The realization had formed slowly, an incoherent notion set adrift in Timothy’s drug addled mind. He struggled to latch onto it, blinking past half lidded eyes in a scan of his immediate surroundings, brow pinched in consternation. Something surged through him — annoyance, maybe? — at not only being unable to retain a simple, solitary train of thought, but for the fact that he’d allowed himself to be subdued in the first place. Fighting past his failure, he forced himself to continue his near impossible task at identifying exactly why it was this particular hallway set his teeth on edge, despite the headache throbbing in his skull and the aching pain around his wrist.

They were still on Pandora. That much he could deduce, by the traces of boot-dragged sand scattered across the floor. The purpose of the place however remained vague — but it was clearly a Hyperion facility, still apparently in use even after all these years. And though any indication of Jack’s influence had long since been wiped away, the yellow brushed metal and honeycomb patterns persisted, forever a hallmark of the brand.

Beyond that, Timothy had no real way of knowing where he was. Except for the gnawing, hateful suggestion that he’d been here before, and something bad had happened.

Had he done something? Had he killed someone here? Had he tortured someone at Jack’s behest? So many goddamn possibilities. Timothy grunted his frustration, hanging forward in his restraints. It was useless. He was of no mind to solve the mystery on his own, and regardless — he had more pressing concerns at hand.

Like the thick metal bands encircling his wrists. And, of course, the cocktail of meds he had been forced to down upon his capture that inhibited his every thought, dulling his senses.

Timothy still wasn’t even certain what had happened, or how. All he knew was that one of his worst fears had been realized — that his face was still somehow _useful_ — and Hyperion no doubt had significant plans for him.

So instead of attempting to identify the facility around him, instead of working out a possible method of escape, he was forced to surrender to the swirl of questions drowning his distorted mind.

Why the fuck did he leave Promethea?

Was Zane okay?

...would he see Rhys again?

“My sincere apologies for the delay.”

Sharp footfalls punctuated the air upon approach, the only sound outside the distant hum of nondescript machinery somewhere in the background. Jeffrey Blake at last made his reappearance, moving out alongside the chair in which Timothy rested to give him a small, satisfied smile. Timothy was able to rally just enough to raise his head and return the gesture with a curled lip snarl.

“I have some questions,” Blake began, casually reaching to pluck a loose strand of hair out of Timothy’s face. “And if you answer them, you will be rewarded handsomely.”

“Fuck you,” Timothy seethed, struggling to sit up straight in the wheelchair. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

Blake’s eyes made a circuit of his face, expression sagging with clear disappointment.

“I can make it worth your time, 21C. I promise.”

“My name...” He rocked forward, as far as the bindings would allow. “Is Timothy.”

Blake snorted. “Well, it _was.”_

He righted himself, thin eyebrow perched high on his forehead.

“Until Jack took it from you.”

A vicious ripple of _hate, hate, hate_ crossed Timothy’s taut muscles. He stifled it, refusing to be baited, focusing instead on Blake’s loathsome, narrow face.

“Says his former lackey,” Timothy shot back. “Did anyone else enable Jack quite as well as you?”

“I—”

“I mean, I at least had the excuse of my goddamn contract,” Timothy leaned back into his seat. “Instead of simply being a baseless, corporate shill.”

At this, Blake briefly fell silent. His lips quirked into a grin, pursued by a small, humble chuckle. It was decidedly unnerving.

“I cannot deny the role I played,” he admitted. “I can only do my best to erase the mistakes of the past.”

Fear fluttered unhappily in his stomach. But only after the initial wave of unease did Timothy realize that he had naturally assumed that _he_ was one of those mistakes, and shame followed soon after.

“Let’s establish things up front, shall we?” Timothy hissed. “I’m not helping you. Not willingly. Do what you must. But I seriously doubt what you’ve got can come anywhere close to what Jack could mete out, back in the day.”

Blake looked unimpressed. Good.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you.” He tilted his head. “I believe, in time, you’ll come to see things my way.”

Timothy rolled his eyes, which — ow. “Sure thing, Jimmy. You keep thinking that.”

The familiar, condescending nickname had Blake straightening ever slightly in indignation. Timothy latched onto his reaction — his clear hatred for anything _Jack_ — and gave him a biting grin, digging the knife in deeper. But unfortunately, Blake rebounded sooner than he would have liked, brushing him off with ease.

“First off,” he continued, like Timothy hadn’t denied him. “Did Strongfork succeed in converting the Nakayama AI to digistructed form?”

It was odd how simply Blake viewed this version of Jack; even Timothy, bitter as he was, still acknowledged his sentience, his identity. But to Blake, he was nothing but mismanaged code. A troublesome bit of malware.

Timothy feigned ignorance, making a show of widening his eyes, gritting his teeth.

“Son of a taint,” he spat. “Is _that_ what he was doing?”

Blake gave him a withering stare. He stepped forward suddenly, and Timothy snapped back as far as was allowed, grimacing upon having his personal space invaded. He felt the touch of fingers at his throat, where Blake tugged the collar of his jacket downward.

“...I will assume by the bruising on your neck that the answer is ‘yes.’”

Fuck.

Blake stood back, seemingly appeased with the result, if not rightfully annoyed.

“Secondly — what does Strongfork intend to _do_ with the AI?”

Well, that was an understandable ask. No doubt, Blake wouldn’t have been privy to the nature of Rhys and Jack’s relationship. And with much of Hyperion’s remaining assets at stake, he was reasonably justified in his concerns.

“Dunno,” Timothy growled. “I didn’t exactly stick around to find out.”

Blake smirked. “Ran, did you? I suppose I can’t blame you. They make for an unfortunate set of bedfellows.”

Double fuck.

Also — phrasing.

Blake emitted a tired sigh, drifting forward once again. His knuckle hooked the clasp under Timothy’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. With each touch, a whirlwind of hatred ripped through his core; his hands snapped down on the armrests, tightening.

“I’m not your enemy here, Mister Lawrence,” Blake drawled. “In fact, I would hazard a guess that we share the same interests.”

Timothy ignored the peculiarity of Blake having used his real name — as it was likely just yet another minor manipulation anyway — and clenched his jaw.

“Oh really,” he replied skeptically. “Pray tell.”

“You want Jack gone, am I correct?”

Timothy stiffened. Blake snickered.

“After everything he put you through, having to witness his reemergence must have been devastating,” he continued. “And the fact that Strongfork _tricked_ you into helping that happen...”

“He didn’t trick me,” Timothy snarled. “I chose to intervene that day.”

“Oh, Timothy,” Blake laughed, voice oozing with pretentious condescension. “You’re so laughably transparent. How did you ever pass as Jack’s double?”

There was that shame again. Timothy sank back, closing his eyes.

“...we can fix that, you know.”

Cool uncertainty flooded his veins like ice. He opened his eyes, blinking his surprise.

“What?”

“Hyperion retained records for all of Jack’s body doubles,” Blake explained. “Including comprehensive facial scans.”

Timothy went stock still, allowing Blake’s words to sink in. His anger ebbed, slipping free from his muscles, as what little control he retained of his mind flipped from that of fury to contemplation. The temptation of Blake’s suggested offer was goddamn alluring.

_My face. Not Jack’s. Mine._

What would that even look like? It was difficult to summon forward, and not simply due to the drugs in his system. Years of living as Jack had wiped out the past, burying it beneath the various traumas of his work. He vaguely remembered red hair — or at least, being teased for it in his youth. A crescent moon birthmark that had once stained his wrist. A smattering of freckles.

He missed his freckles.

“...and why would you do that?”

The subtle smirk returned — a victory on Blake’s part, as Timothy even remotely considering was a win, a step in the right direction.

“We will require your services as his double for just a little while longer,” Blake hummed. “And then you will be free. From it all.”

Somehow, the thought of acting like Jack for Hyperion was far more vile than having done it for Zane or Rhys. But still—

“And what would you be asking me to do as Jack?”

“Simple,” Blake uttered softly. “You help us destroy the AI.”

What a goddamn roller coaster of emotions. Timothy scrutinized Blake’s vulpine face, bristling with uncertainty.

“You want to destroy the last traces of Handsome Jack?” Timothy asked. “But why? He brought Hyperion to glory.”

Blake made a face.

“Indeed,” he replied snidely. “And then he brought it to ruin.”

Ah. Uh. True.

“His obsession with the Warrior outweighed any benefit for Hyperion. It wasn’t about profit, it was about revenge. A sick fantasy from a corrupted mind,” Blake ranted, folding his arms behind his back. “And now that he has returned, I must protect what we have left.”

No doubt Jack would have pursued what was his, once Rhys got him back on his feet. Timothy found it difficult to argue with his logic, as it was only prudent that Blake prepare for that eventuality — something for which he couldn’t fault the man. 

Oh, except for the fact that he totally _could,_ because it was the reason he was sitting there, restrained and drugged.

“And you didn’t think to have this conversation with Rhys? Try to make a deal?”

“Strongfork is emblematic of a bigger problem.” Blake’s eyes narrowed in a rather uncharacteristic show of hatred. “He and Jack are quite the pair.”

 _Also fair._ “What do you mean?”

“He began as nothing more than one of many mid-level employees who had fallen for the propaganda that elevated Handsome Jack to his godly status. But Strongfork’s hero worship was unique — he managed to surpass his coworkers to become less of a hive-minded waste of space and more of a genuine threat. The fool practically _bumbled_ his way into destroying Helios.

“Jack brought Hyperion to its knees. But Strongfork finished the job.”

The hard lines that had formed in Blake’s expression were particularly alarming, something in the man that Timothy had _never_ before seen. Timothy worried at the inside of his cheek, drawing blood.

“I have my issues with Jack,” he started, parroting Zane’s words from hours before. “But I won’t be involved with anything aimed at Rhys. He’s done right by me.”

“With the exception of Jack’s resurrection, of course...”

“With that exception, yes.”

Blake again tilted his head, briefly silent as he lapsed back into thought. Timothy understood why — everything he said was damning. With only a few words, he had unintentionally given Blake everything he needed to know. And with each accidental admission, he felt his confidence wane.

Shit, and they expected him to pretend to be Jack again?

“...very well.” Blake nodded slowly. “I can make that work. When this is all over, you may return to Atlas.”

“I didn’t say I agreed to it yet,” Timothy seethed. “A little plastic surgery is hardly worth what you’re asking me to do.”

“You don’t _know_ what I’m asking you to do,” Blake stated plainly. “But I suppose you’re right. You could use a little more convincing.”

Blake raised his head, gesturing to somewhere over Timothy’s shoulder. The chair lurched forward, trailing behind Blake’s path down the hallway, and once again, Timothy felt his anxiety flourish.

“I know you haven’t forgotten what Jack has put you through,” Blake continued, as he led the way through the dimly lit corridors. “I could never fathom what it took to be his favourite pet. But even the worst memories fade, given time. Especially when our judgment is clouded by those we care about.”

 _He means Rhys._ Timothy bit his tongue, tamping down on the onslaught of hostility. But when they came to a stop at a set of doors, and the clawing, desperate feeling of familiarity — of danger — grew deafening, his anger began to give way to a fresh, unidentifiable fear. Blake turned and looked him over, expression rife with pity.

“Let’s clear those clouds away, shall we?”

The doors opened. The chair wheeled inside. And suddenly, it all came roaring back. Timothy went rigid, assessing the room with paralyzing terror.

It was almost as they had left it. Various surgical instruments remained discarded on a surface nearby, stained with old rust and blood. A device — little more than a high tech branding iron — hung in its cradle against the wall. And there, at the centre of the floor, he could almost pinpoint the exact place he’d been forced down on his knees. Where Jack had stood and spun the brand in his wrist, crowding in to grip the hair at the back of his head.

“Now, now, Tim Tams...” His voice was thick in Timothy’s skull, a poisoned sludge clogging his senses, drowning him. “We want to be accurate, don’t we?”

“Jack, _please...”_

Blood dribbled across the floor where his fingernails splintered against the metal. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a deafening reverberation pierced only by Jack’s taunting laugh.

“Don’t do this.” His voice fractured, broke apart. “I gave you everything, Jack. _Everything.”_

“Oh, Timmy...”

Fingers gripped his chin, sparking heat through the freshly tender graft where the clasp now resided. He met Jack’s maniacal laugh, shivering under his touch.

“…did you really think that was enough?”

All that followed was blinding, searing pain.

The smell of burnt flesh somehow manifested once more in his nostrils, stinging his senses. Timothy tossed his head back, eyes squeezed shut. His chest rose and collapsed in sick hyperventilation.

“...this is where it happened, Timothy,” Blake whispered at his ear. “This is where he erased you.”

Timothy lurched forward, somehow almost _grounded_ by Blake’s voice returning him to the present. Painfully hot tears etched their way down his cheek.

“I am giving you the chance,” he murmured. “To return the favour.”

And that was all it took. Beneath the devastation of his loss, his personal destruction, there was nothing left to defend. Because there was nothing left at all.

“...okay,” he replied, and his voice was strangely resolute, despite the waver of his breath, the constriction in his chest.

“What do you want me to do?” 

* * *

  
  
Once upon a time, Jack knew what it took to be a good husband. Being with someone took careful communication, and demanded balance in all aspects of life — affection, loyalty, support. And with the good came the bad; when things were easy, _great,_ but when things were tough, all one could do was to clench their fists and stand by the person they loved. Because that’s what they _needed_ , and damn the logic. A solid relationship was about filling the gaps where your partner fell short, and vice versa — being a _team._

That was lifetimes ago. Back when he also knew how to be a good _father,_ what it meant to be truly selfless. Growing up in an abusive home had that effect; as an adult, he held the desire to break that cycle, a promise to himself that things would be different. And they were, for a while. Life had been _good._

But then the losses began to stack up.

It started the day that those damned marks appeared on his baby girl’s skin, as if fate itself was against them. And it ended, not with Elpis, not with Pandora — but with the death of his first wife. The very moment that Angel’s powers went haywire, triggering the turret, and sent the world cascading down around them. Everything after that was secondary. Everything after that happened to someone else, someone that he had built around himself like a shell. Because Handsome Jack could handle those traumas. Handsome Jack was _strong._ He didn’t require petty things like feelings or love or _support._ Those needs died with John, with his wife. With Angel’s childhood.

Until he met Rhys.

And with the years of reflection, the torment of the dark, of _himself,_ Jack was beginning to remember John. He was beginning to recall what it meant to be someone’s other half.

This is why he sucked it up, and caved to Rhys’ requests. This is why he stood next to the very vault hunter who had put him in the ground, albeit _bitterly,_ watching in silence as Rhys fretted over someone else. This is why he swallowed his fury, remained silent, and simply _waited._ Because it was what Rhys needed. And he wasn’t lying when he said he loved the dumb idiot.

So, jealous as he was, forced to watch Rhys’ minor breakdown over friggin’ _Timothy,_ he did what he could to sideline the behaviour. Besides — there were more urgent matters at hand. Mostly in the shape of his rather valuable body double, and taking him back from the company that at one time bent to his every goddamn whim, and now appeared to be the bane of his existence.

And it all hinged on the rather broken looking operative sunk into Rhys’ sofa, staring listlessly past them all like none of them existed.

Long rivulets of blood carved stained swathes through the dirt and sweat intermingling on Flynt’s forehead, tracing complex paths down from some presumably now-healed wound hidden in his scalp. Though he feigned attentiveness, gazing rigidly ahead as Rhys doted over him, he posture begged to tell another story, the soft curvature of his spine drawing his shoulders forward in a defeated slouch. And even at a distance, the small tremor in his hands were enough even for Jack to take notice. No doubt, he was slightly delirious, having stabbed more than a handful of health kits into his system. Simply put, Flynt looked done in _— knackered —_ like he was one solid nudge from passing out onto the floor.

Relying on him didn’t exactly invoke confidence for the disgruntled AI.

“Zane,” Rhys pleaded, grasping for his hands. “Please. You have to rest.”

“No,” he bluntly replied, avoiding Rhys’ eyes. “Not until we find Tim.”

While not surprising, the normally amicable operative’s response was poignantly sharp, impatient. There was none of the mirth or teasing nature that he carried with him even in his most threatening moments. And Jack instantly recognized it for what it was.

A sense of _failure._

Shortly after transmitting the news of Timothy’s capture to Atlas, Flynt had fallen unconscious. The Anshin kits he had spent on himself had done the job of knitting together the various injuries he’d suffered at the hands of a pair of Hyperion constructors and their creations, but the blood loss had been sufficient enough to knock him out for hours. When he at last awoke, and returned to Atlas, it was a _full day cycle later._ And during that time of radio silence, Rhys had almost lost his goddamn mind.

So now that Flynt had returned, covered in the flaking remnants of his own blood, Rhys hovered at his side like a mother hen, brow tight with concern. He reached, winced, drew back, hands collapsing into fists as though he were uncertain how to help. Jack shifted uncomfortably at having to witness this, turning his gaze back to Flynt.

“Not a whole lot you can do about it right now, kiddo,” he reasoned. “Leave that to us.”

Flynt rounded a heavy look of scrutiny on Jack; it very nearly drove his hackles up, but Jack narrowly managed to subdue the instinct.

“Nah,” Flynt dragged his forearm across his mouth. “This is on me.”

Jack couldn’t help snorting. “How do you figure?”

“I led him into that trap. Wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t delivered him straight to ‘em.”

Well, it was true, to an extent. He’d enabled Hyperion to not only capture Timothy, but gave them plenty of time to disappear, due to him having nearly taking a dirt nap following the firefight. But Jack wasn’t going to be the one to say. After all, he was already treading on unfamiliar terrain.

“This is on _all_ of us,” Rhys growled. He ignored Jack’s penetrating, accusatory gaze, moving forward to dab a damp cloth across Flynt’s forehead. “He was only there because we drove him off.”

“This is all besides the point,” Jack grunted. “Who gives a crap who is to blame? It’s time to act, not throw ourselves a pity party. We gotta track him down and get him back.”

_Or put him down. Whichever is easiest._

“Why do you care alluva sudden?” Flynt growled, voice heavy with suspicion. “Did yeh grow a heart overnight?”

“I don’t,” Jack answered honestly — because there was no denying the truth, not with Flynt, and especially not with Zer0 watching from nearby. “Timothy’s not just a body double. He’s a _key.”_

Flynt’s expression shifted; his face lit up with informed understanding. His reaction put Jack on edge for some untold reason, but he ignored it, waving a hand through the air.

“That, and that beanpole dip-shit _Blake_ made the dangerous assumption that he can take what’s rightfully _mine._ ”

At this, Rhys noticeably straightened. His demeanour cracked, spidering between shame and realization.

“Jeffrey Blake,” he murmured. “…what makes you say that?”

Jack had to resist yet another impulse to roll his eyes, steeling himself against Rhys’ bashful reply. The way he generally treated Rhys hadn’t changed — _softened,_ maybe — but he was beginning to understand his partner’s crushingly timid nature. Rhys could be a badass when necessary (and gods, was it _hot_ when he was), but he was painfully gentle the rest of the time, and Jack found himself frustrated and enamoured by him in equal parts. So to see him too obviously worked up about the state of his precious vault hunter to have carefully thought through what Timothy’s abduction truly meant, he had to accept that the two simply handled things _differently._

Jack favoured cold logic. Rhys, not so much.

“Tim spilled the beans, Rhysie,” Jack sighed. “When I was piloting you, he mentioned you paid a visit Blake recently. Something about his contract.”

The flush of red in Rhys’ cheeks was a damning enough response in lieu of actual words. Jack recalled his promise — to _understand,_ to be patient, but he still felt his fingers dig sharply against his flanks, if ever briefly.

“So I’m guessing that’s where you got the Digi-Jack code. And Blake isn’t dumb. I imagine he figured out why you wanted the Digi-Jacks immediately. Am I right so far?”

Rhys’ expression soured; he looked away. “You _know_ you are.”

Bitter silence followed. Jack tensed.

_Unfamiliar terrain._

“I’m not chastising you, kitten,” He allowed his voice to soften further, a minor effort to mitigate the frustration they were all clearly experiencing. That, and he was still well aware that Rhysie hadn’t _quite_ forgiven him about the previous week’s events. He hadn’t exactly had the chance to _repent_ yet.

“I’m just pointing out what a friggin’ mistake that was.”

“Yeh wouldn’t be standing here if not for that mistake,” Zane countered.

“Maybe not,” Jack allowed. “But there were other means by which to secure the project. Instead of poking the goddamn skag.”

“I guess I underestimated Blake,” Rhys breathed. “I didn’t think he was the type to want to seek reprisal.”

“And normally, you’d be right,” Jack shrugged. “As long as he’s getting what he wants, he’s a good little stooge. But you backed him into a corner, Rhysie. And seeing how he’s in charge of mercenary relations, it’s not a stretch that he’d be able to drop a bait contract into your buddy’s lap here.”

“But why?” Rhys frowned. “To what end? There’s no way he could have guaranteed Timothy would have been with him. Zane isn’t exactly on Atlas’ payroll.”

“I think he got lucky,” Jack guessed. “He was targeting you, not Tim. Pretty standard stuff — you can’t get at the source, go for their loved ones.”

Once again, Rhys’ expression twisted at Jack’s words. And once again, Jack was punched in the chest by envy that he was forced to smother.

“I can confirm this,” Zer0 at last interjected. “I have received similar / offers as of late.”

Jack straightened with a rush of hostility, scanning the lanky bandit at his side in outrage.

“And you kept that little tidbit to yourself, cupcake?”

He had to admit, it was impressive that Zer0 could give him a caustic look without the benefit of visible eyes.

“Nothing seemed amiss,” Zer0 snapped back. “The contract was not unlike / others I had seen.”

“Yeah,” Flynt agreed. “S’why I took it. Just seemed like a standard anonymous bounty.”

“Whatever, fine,” Jack growled. “Getting off track. My point is—”

“That _I_ did this."

Jack flinched, swivelling his head toward Rhys. The younger man had yet to turn his way, wringing the damp cloth in his hands. His expression of concern had altered yet again, but it was overtaken by anguish, a tightness around his eyes and brow. Jack’s mind lagged at the sight; he fumbled with his response.

“Kitten—”

“No!” Rhys argued, pivoting to confront him. “No, Jack. Don’t you see? This is all my fault. Every damn thing I’ve done this last month has led to this!”

“I—”

“I _told_ you. All the mistakes. All the lies. I was never equipped to handle this. What the _hell_ was I thinking?”

_You weren’t._

“Rhys…”

Jack was forced to restrain himself, tempted though he was to reach out and take a hold of Rhys, to keep him still until his tantrum ceased. While his little outburst wasn’t constructive _whatsoever,_ Jack could at least see it for what it truly was: desperation. Regret.

Fear.

And it was all for him.

Rhys had put a lot on the line to bring him back. And now his chickens were coming home to roost. Here were the consequences of resurrecting the King.

So Jack remained in place, practising what he could of that “endless patience” he had once claimed to have mastered.

“Rhysie. Kitten. Hear me out.”

Jack was hesitant to lower his guard, given their audience. To the others, he was still _Handsome Jack_ — had an image that he’d carved and maintained in the interest of not only protecting what he had but to also cow enemies into submission by name alone. And that Handsome Jack was not _sentimental._ He did not care about others.

But, well, he supposed the cat was already out of the bag, wasn’t it? So what was there to lose? Especially considering that Rhys _needed_ him right then, whether he was willing to admit it or not. Needed him — like a _partner_ would.

His image could risk taking a hit or two.

He cautiously advanced, reaching to ask, not grab, for Rhys’ hands. And thankfully, Rhys immediately bit; he folded into Jack’s arms where he perfectly fit, grabbing handfuls of his jacket to hyperventilate into his shoulder. He fell naturally against him, as if he had been waiting for his comfort — _anticipating_ it. His lifeline amidst the chaos.

It did troubling things to Jack’s digistructed heart.

Jack tilted his head, just enough to plant a reassuring kiss to Rhys’ temple, right above the neural port. His fingers found purchase in Rhys’ hair, stroking softly against the back of his head.

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty, kitten. You did what you needed to. And it backfired. So be it. Now is not the time to punish yourself.” Jack nuzzled his cheek, feeling the stain of Rhys' tear against his nose. “We can hold a retrospective after this shit is dealt with, if you want. But right now, I need you to focus. _Tim_ needs you to focus. We need to take control of this situation.”

“I…” Rhys dragged gulping breaths from the crook of his shoulder. “Okay. You’re right. But what do we do? Blake hasn’t made contact. Do we reach out?”

“Absolutely not,” Jack hissed. “You give him the chance, and he will bend you over a barrel, kitten. We need to figure out his plan before he gets too far ahead of us.”

“That is the question,” Zer0 started. “What are his intentions if / not a swap or deal?”

“Making demands would only make sense if it was just Flynt,” Jack explained. “But like I said, Tim Tams isn’t any ordinary hostage. He has just the right combination of my good looks and a sprinkle of my DNA to cause real trouble.”

“Hence your interest,” Flynt muttered quietly. “Makes sense.”

“Shit,” Rhys cursed. “You’re right. There’s gotta be a ton of resources left over after your death that only you could access.”

“Bingo,” Jack nodded. “So all we gotta do is pinpoint which one he’s after.”

“That won’t be a problem. I know where they’re going,”

Flynt’s voice again began to crack. It struck up fresh concern within Jack, though he already had a sneaking, loathsome suspicion of what he was about to say. The headache encroaching on his skull found purchase; his grip on Rhys tightened. And when Flynt set a heavy, troubled look his way, Jack’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth nearly shattered.

“…we found yer little secret durin’ our heist.”

A rush of fury worked its way up his spine; Jack straightened to his full height.

“Ah…” Jack glowered across at the operative. “You did, did you?”

“Secret?” Rhys frowned.

All things considered, he should have hazarded the guess himself — it wasn’t difficult, given what was left. It wasn’t merely a “connect the dots” scenario regarding how Timothy had come to be with Atlas, either. Jack merely had to mentally check off his list of hidden investments, weighing their value against the damage that could be done and what suited Blake best.

Opportunity had lost potential at being a shining utopia the day Zer0’s team blew through and wrecked shop. Jack’s various massive eridium stores on Pandora, while valuable, were apparently de-prioritized in the last few years, judging by the lack of slag fuelled weapons on the market. And while various money-making schemes existed across the inhabitable planets, only one carried with it a far greater value.

So yes, it was fairly obvious what remained. And what remained would by now be what experts referred to as an “ _apocalyptic_ _fuckload”_ of loader bots, stashed away beneath the floorboards.

“So,” Jack breathed, showing an unholy amount of restraint. “What did you do with the place when you left? _Please_ tell me you locked it down. Or at least handed the keys over to Atlas?”

“Locked down the basement. Only after we shut down the assembly line, a’ course.” Flynt gave a nod. “Then we handed it over to Mox. It was the plan from the start.”

And at last, it all came to a grinding halt. Jack’s head swivelled back to Flynt, held him. The laugh started slowly — an indistinguishable squelch in his chest that rose into a mocking, disbelieving cackle.

“You — _ha ha ha!”_ Jack barked. “I’m sorry, cupcake, I thought you said you handed my goddamn army to _Mad Moxxi.”_

His laughter cut out with Flynt’s unassuming shrug.

_What in the ever loving fuck._

“You gave the casino to _Moxxi?”_ he snarled. “Are you just the biggest goddamn tool in the universe?”

Flynt’s expression darkened.

“Moxxi’s _okay—”_

“Moxxi is an _opportunistic witch_ who’ll gladly stab you in the back should the chance arise,” Jack seethed. “And you gave her the biggest army this galaxy has ever seen.”

“I told you. We locked down yer precious _Jacksclusive Security Checkpoint._ Mox just wanted the casino,” Flynt argued. “What would she even do with an army?”

“Oh, absolutely nothing,” Jack snapped. “Except to sell it off to the highest bidder.”

“Enter Blake,” Rhys mumbled. “Shit.”

“Exactly.” Jack eyed Flynt. “You witless _twat.”_

“It was a job,” Flynt growled. “I don’t discriminate. I’ve done far worse for greater cunts.”

Jack snarled at what was clearly a shot at him.

“You piece of—”

“Would you two shut the hell up?”

Blinking, Jack rocked back on his heels as Rhys moved between them. His hand pressed against Jack’s shoulder, forcing him backward a few steps, as though proximity were the problem.

“This bickering bullshit isn’t helping,” Rhys barked. “We need a plan.”

And despite himself, despite his anger, Jack couldn’t help but shiver with minor delight at the sudden show of force on Rhysie’s part.

_Hot._

“Sorry, boyo.” Zane’s voice quieted in surrender. Jack, however, remained riled.

“You need to understand, Rhys,” he clenched his jaw. “What a _massive_ concern this is.”

Rhys met his gaze. “Tell me.”

Jack slid his hands along Rhys’ flanks, grabbing ahold for stability.

“The casino was always a cover,” he explained. “Hiding away an enormous production line of loader bots.”

Rhys’ eyes widened. _“How_ enormous?”

Jack tilted his head in thought.

“Fifteen bots per minute for eight years or so...” he calculated. “I’d say well over seven point five million.”

Rhys buckled in his grasp at the wash of information.

“Holy shit,” he uttered. _“Why?”_

“Doesn’t really matter anymore,” Jack mumbled, discarding memories of old plans, of intentions of bulldozing his way across the galaxy. “All that matters is that Blake is attempting to access it. And where do you think he’ll send it?”

Rhys closed his eyes, burying his face in Jack’s shoulder.

_“What have I done?”_

Jack pulled him close, lips hovering at his ear. “We have to stop him.”

“If it’s not already too late.” Rhys nodded weakly. “Right. Okay. So how do we do it?”

“I have an idea,” Jack started. “But you’re not gonna like it.”

His thumb brushed over Rhys’ neural port. Rhys’ eyes fluttered deftly in response.

“You’re right,” he replied in a low hiss. “I don’t.”

“And I don’t exactly want to risk marching you in there either, kitten,” Jack murmured. “But we gotta play the hands we are dealt. You get me into the Jackpot’s system, I can shut it all down from the inside.”

It sickened him to consider putting Rhys in danger. But there wasn’t much of a choice, and the alternative — to let Hyperion take control of the army — was much, much worse. And although Rhys had more or less bungled his way across Pandora, he had survived. Hell, he had survived Jack. He had more than proved himself long ago.

Rhys lowered his head, chewing on his lip.

“Suppose I consider it. How would we even get inside?”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

Flynt struggled to find his feet, only managing to climb out of the sofa with an assist from Zer0. He straightened, brow set with some unspoken determination.

“I can get us inside.”

“Fast travel won’t do, cupcake,” Jack chided. “If they cut the network off, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

“No. We go by ship,” Flynt shook his head. “I’ve got a nice little spot that’ll fit the Phoenix, easy. And a friend on the inside to make that happen.”

“Not loyal to Moxxi?” Jack hissed skeptically.

“No,” Flynt grunted. “Loyal to Tim.”

Jack shut his mouth, looking Flynt over. It was a shit plan. Too many unknowns, too much potential for disaster. But — and he was very hesitant to admit this — with two slippery vault hunters onboard, he supposed they could do worse.

“What do you say, Rhysie?”

Jack tugged him closer, stroking his cheek. Rhys subconsciously leaned into him, adrift in his distant headspace. In that brief, precious moment, Jack revelled in his touch, thankful for even the barest seconds in Rhys’ arms.

Because, in all honesty, he wasn’t sure how uploading into the Jackpot would work out. It wasn’t like Helios — it had various independent systems that had been isolated in the interest of keeping his reactor a secret. There were only a few locations they could access to even cause some damage. But with Timothy in the enemy’s hands, there was nothing they could do but for Jack to make an appearance, himself. And Rhys would never allow him to do that alone.

It churned his stomach. If he had a stomach. 

“What about you, Zero?” Rhys asked suddenly, gazing over his shoulder.

The bandit had been incredibly quiet, but Jack was not going to be the person to point it out and ruin the nice break from his bullshit poetry. Zer0’s head turned toward Rhys, broadcasting a red, glowing ellipsis in the air before his helmet.

“...I do not like it,” he admitted. “The risk is worse than the last / time you nearly died.”

He must have meant during the invasion, back when Maliwan was rampaging through the city. Again, Jack shuddered with quiet rage. If only he had been there — the _things_ he would have done to Katagawa for even thinking about harming Rhys...

“I understand,” Rhys sagged. “I—”

“Ah, ah, kitten,” Jack interrupted, narrowing his eyes in Zer0’s direction. “There is a ‘but’ following this objection.”

Zer0 remained perfectly still, head trained in the direction where Jack still held onto Rhys. And Jack stared back with the same intensity, daring the vault hunter to deny them. After all — how else was Jack expected to prove himself?

After a few moments of excruciating silence that seemed to pull Rhys into a defeated slump, a distorted breach of air that could only be a sigh escaped Zer0’s helmet.

“Our friend needs our help. / Together, we have endured.” Zer0 gave a short bow. “I go where you go.”

“Good.” Jack carded his fingers through Rhys’ hair, pressing his lips to his forehead. “Now let’s get this show on the road.”

“Right,” Flynt hummed, quietly scanning Jack’s face.

“…under one condition.”

* * *

They had taken all of his gear away, ECHO included. While it was not surprising — the trust that had come with their shaky agreement was built on a slapdash foundation, after all — Timothy couldn’t help but mourn the loss of his device. He supposed it made sense; he’d worked loyally under Jack for years, despite the shit he’d taken. It was only prudent on Blake’s part to only trust him _to a point._ And he couldn’t deny the impulse to contact Atlas, to reach out to Rhys. To _warn him._

But he wouldn’t do that, would he? Because as concerned as he was for Rhys’ safety, warning him meant warning Jack. And that would entirely defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?

Timothy stood in his loaned quarters, listening to the faint hum of the ship around him. The brief moment of solitude was almost _nice,_ a short-lived reprieve from the past few weeks, hours — from what was to come. But it, too, was bittersweet, as he could do little not to dwell on what he had agreed to do. He winced, shook away the intruding thoughts, and pressed his hands to his face, dragging them down over his eyes.

Absently, he wondered just how haggard he looked then. How apparent his fatigue, how obvious the compounding stress of the last while. He supposed the mask did its part in concealing some of it — though, admittedly, the bags under his eyes from years of running for his life had somehow worked through the synthetic material to become far more visible in the last while, and no doubt his anxieties were still perfectly on display. Hell, it was likely how Blake had been so proficient at manipulating him to this point, playing expertly on his already frayed mind.

_Speaking of._

The wrist watch laid out on the bed buzzed with life; Timothy flinched, sighed, turned his eyes downward to scan the message with quiet disinterest.

**We will arrive shortly. Please be ready.**

Mentally, Timothy would never be ready. But to be fair, that wasn’t what Blake meant.

Timothy dropped his hands from his face to the pile of clothing left carefully folded on the bed. His fingers sifted through the material in minor suspicion, lending to the yawning hole stretching his chest. His eyelids fluttered in disbelief, closed in acceptance. Then, slowly, he undressed.

It was as mindless a task as it had ever been. He pulled on the socks and jeans with little fanfare, slowing to slip the belt through its loops and clip it into place. The stupid fucking sneakers came next. The sweater wore a little larger than usual; Timothy recalled with a wince that he hadn’t quite managed to gain back his muscle mass following the casino, despite his best attempts. He discarded the thought, half-heartedly tugging on the lab coat, adjusting its awkward fit around the oversized sweater. Then the vest; he worked the clasps with practised ease, snapping each into place down his chest, his abdomen. And finally, the jacket—

This is where Timothy wavered. The grey jacket sat folded on the bed, a completely unassuming article of clothing to anyone else. But the longer Timothy regarded it, the more he felt his already fragile sanity begin to drift.

The ensemble was iconic as a set, that was true. But there had always been something about _that goddamn jacket_ that never failed to set his teeth on edge. He felt a swell of pain rise in an arch over his brow, down through his cheek. Timothy’s lip twitched with a snarl; he once again closed his eyes, and dropped onto his haunches in resignation.

He wasn’t sure if there was a god (or _gods,_ depending where you came from). He had certainly never taken solace in the idea of a greater power, not even pre-Hyperion. The concept of a greater plan did nothing to reassure him — if anything, he could but hope that there _wasn’t_ an omniscient being governing over his life. Because if he had been predestined to suffer this life, then _holy shit,_ did he have questions.

What had he done to deserve this? Why was he constantly at the whims of others, at the whims of a verifiable psychopath?

When could he finally _rest?_

Timothy snorted at the thought, opening his eyes to stare accusingly at the jacket beneath his hands. If there _was_ a god, well… they could just _eat shit._

After a few minutes, he managed to get back on his feet, brushing the wrinkles out of his clothes. He picked up the jacket, shouldered his way into it, all the while resentful of how well it still fit, even with the weight loss. Then he made his way out of the room.

A pair of Hyperion guards flanked the door, awaiting him. They said nothing — barely even looked at him — but their rifles were loud enough. Timothy was actually grateful for their indifference, all things considered. If he was expected to carry out this charade, he was happy to put off the genuine reactions to _Handsome Jack’s presence_ for as long as he damn well could.

Now he only had to remember how to _be_ Handsome Jack. His display at the casino had been amateurish. Forced. However, when he’d stepped in to assist Rhys…

Hopefully now, he at least had the inspiration to appear genuine. _Like the good old days._

When they arrived at the bridge, only Blake looked his way. His reception was mixed; Blake clearly flinched with disgust upon sighting him, only to lapse into a taunting smirk that turned Timothy’s stomach. Hated what he represented, loved what it promised, he realized.

“Good evening, Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Timothy crossed his arms across his chest, passing a disinterested glance across the handful of Hyperion employees at the ship’s controls. “Let’s just get this over with, cupcake.”

Blake’s smirk lengthened. “Certainly, sir. Our contact is already expecting us.”

 _Contact._ Why was that so foreboding?

“A bit of prep would be nice,” he grunted. “Wanna tell me what I’m getting into here?”

“Yes, of course.” Blake gestured to the expansive windows lining the front of the bridge. Timothy followed behind in silence, eyebrows already tight with those telltale, unimpressed arches. “It’s very simple. A security detail will accompany us inside. From there, we will meet the contact, and discuss a trade.”

It only brought forward more questions. But as Timothy turned his attention out the windows, he was suddenly awash with nausea and understanding.

Illuminated by the halo of the black hole beyond, glinting like a diamond suspended in the void, was the _goddamn casino._ A familiar, yawning unease grew in his chest. Alarm bells crashed through his skull, clashing head on with urges of _no, stop, wait._ But beyond the terror of returning to his once prison, a deeper conflict took control, now that he understood.

The conflicting need to destroy all that remained of the monster who’d turned his life upside down, and the knowledge of what it would do to the man who had saved him.

_He will never forgive you._

“Are you ready?”

His breath stuttered.

“As I’ll ever be,” he grunted. “Lead the way, Jimmy.”

* * *

It was almost as if the last seven years hadn’t occurred. The aisles of the casino — now called “Moxxi’s Big Score” — were overflowing with patrons; every single slot machine was occupied, filling the air with triumphant chimes and flashing lights. The place was absolutely filled to the brim with excited faces, a positive revelry in over indulgence and escapism that Timothy could barely recognize. All traces of the lockdown had disappeared — the rogue bots, the graffiti, the former gamblers who had descended into post-apocalyptic insanity. Now, there was celebration, chips and cash changing hands, and various cheers and groans from left and right. The Jackpot was _alive_ again, and the only difference Timothy could see was that Jack had been wiped away, and Moxxi had assumed the throne.

Timothy silently followed Blake through the station, head held high and determinedly forward as they made their way via aimed guard past the throngs of patrons. He retained a casually powerful demeanour, hands tucked into his pockets but jaw set; at first, they passed through unmolested, unnoticed, at which he felt the smallest flicker of hope. But slowly, surely, eyes were drawn their way, followed by blatant (if not fearful) gawking, and a hum of whispers struck up beneath the chaotic din.

Though he carefully maintained his outward facade — the sharpened brow, confident posture, that “Jack” swagger — he felt dead inside. It only took a handful of steps off of the ship before he began to question everything, to recalculate his plans, flush with regret for what he had set off to achieve. Showing his face was betrayal enough, what damage would he do next?

What would Rhys see?

The entourage eventually made their way through the Spendopticon, where he pointedly ignored glancing toward the falls, _Casa de Timothy,_ his former cell, to arrive at the foot of the Tower. And awaiting them, flanked by her own armed guards, was their “contact” — Mad Moxxi herself. She was dressed to the nines as usual — four inch heels; tight, colourful clothing; eccentric makeup. Timothy couldn't help looking away.

“My dear.” Blake swept toward her, pressing his lips to her extended hand. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Jeffrey,” she cooed. “It has been too long.”

“Indeed. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

“How could I refuse?”

Moxxi’s eyes passed over Timothy, flashing with interest. He straightened ever slightly, unsure of how to even greet her, given the circumstances. Zane had reminded him of the bad blood between them, the betrayal that had been dulled by the passing years and the trauma of the lockdown. It made it particularly difficult to withstand her presence, which had nothing to do with having to play his current role (although Jack would no doubt object to seeing her, too).

“Hello, sugar,” she purred, hands slipping into place on her hips. “I didn’t expect to see your face again.”

Timothy’s mask tensed.

“Yeah, well,” he snorted, gazing away like she wasn’t worth his time — worth _Jack’s_ time. “You weren’t exactly my first choice either, princess.”

Moxxi smiled knowingly. It was oddly reassuring, but there was also a hint of something vile. Timothy latched onto it, but did nothing, choosing to let Blake do the talking so he could continue to suffer in relative silence.

“Well, now that you’ve made your grand appearance…” Moxxi turned her back, hooking a finger over her shoulder in a gesture for them to follow. “Why don’t we talk upstairs?”

The crowd markedly thinned out as they reached the High Roller Lounge, reduced to the elite of the galaxy still bold enough to risk a visit to the once-prison. Timothy wasn’t sure if he admired their bravery or loathed their stupidity, aware as he was that it wouldn’t take very much for the station to be thrown into lockdown once again. But he supposed he couldn’t judge — after all, he survived seven years of this hell hole, only to have returned himself.

As they proceeded into Luxuria, following Moxxi past the trickling water features, Timothy could only picture the discarded metal bits of loader bots destroyed in Zane’s wake. The closer to the scene of their final showdown, Timothy drew ever more tense. And when they finally boarded the elevator to Jack’s suite, and Moxxi’s goon activated the lift, he felt his feigned composure begin to slip.

Then Moxxi’s hand appeared on his shoulder, giving an affectionate squeeze.

“You can drop the act now, love,” she murmured at his ear. “No one to see you up here.”

He gave her a pained look of exhaustion before lowering his gaze to the floor.

“So,” Blake hummed. “Have you had time to consider my proposal?”

“Slow down, Jeffrey, dear,” Moxxi gave a wink. “I’m afraid you’ll have to entice me a little more before we can shake hands.”

The elevator slowed to a stop. The first thing that Timothy noticed was that the framed image of Moxxi was still hung in place, while the one that had been opposite it was gone. But his eyes were inevitably drawn across the foyer to the control room. And beyond, the massive chamber overlooking the black hole, where Zane had battled the ridiculous Jackpot mech, and Timothy had…

He winced, glancing down to his prosthetic, which was concealed beneath a glove marked with the Hyperion logo.

Moxxi swivelled her hips as she proceeded into the control room, sliding fingers along the panels of interfaces. She turned, casting her half-lidded gaze on Timothy, and pressed her ass against the console’s edge.

“Can I get you gents a drink?”

“I appreciate the reception,” Blake replied softly. “But I am afraid time is of the essence.”

“No foreplay then, hm?” Moxxi’s finely groomed eyebrow quirked upward. “Very well. I’m prepared to entertain your offer.”

Blake retrieved a datapad from one of the armed guards, manipulating it with a quick series of swipes.

“As discussed, we would like to secure the assets sheltered beneath the casino,” he began. “We are not interested in the casino itself, nor its profits. You are also free to retain the caches that Jack left behind. All we ask is for the loader bots, and usage of the Winning Hand device.”

“And what am I to receive in return?” Moxxi asked. “I already _own_ the casino, after all.”

Blake passed the datapad to Moxxi; she turned it in her wrist, studying it only briefly before a small danced over her features.

“Oh, honey,” she chided. “You are a handful of zeroes short, I’m afraid.”

Timothy side eyed Blake, wondering what his game was as his own crooked smirk took shape.

“We will also guarantee that Handsome Jack will no longer be a problem for you.”

Moxxi’s controlled expression ebbed with clear confusion. She looked at Timothy in scrutiny, and he gave her nothing in response, staring back with a tired, vacant look.

“…I do believe a group of vault hunters beat you to it, sweetheart.”

“Very true,” Blake nodded. “But you of all people should know that Jack prepared for every eventuality, following Elpis. Including his death.”

Moxxi opened her mouth to respond, but Blake interrupted her, indicating toward the datapad.

“May I?”

Hesitating, Moxxi gazed warily toward Timothy once more, and again, he gave her nothing, watching as Blake summoned forward a video file. The screen flickered with life, and Timothy drew rigid.

Imagery of Helios appeared. Broadcasts of Jack, of his larger than life face looming over his office. And there, sitting at his desk, was Rhys. Timothy almost buckled at a wave of nausea, a sense of _wrong, wrong, wrong,_ at seeing him in that damned chair.

And _gods,_ he looked so young.

“What is this?” Moxxi frowned. “What am I looking at?”

“This was Helios, just short of seven years ago,” Blake explained. “We retrieved only fragments of footage from what remained of Jack’s office.”

He paused the video. Rhys was frozen in place, smirking triumphantly up at Jack.

“…Atlas.”

Moxxi’s tone noticeably shifted. Timothy felt an odd stir of unease; he realized that, suddenly, he could not recognize the timbre of her voice. What had changed, in that brief moment?

“Back when Rhys Strongfork was employed by Hyperion,” Blake confirmed. “When he located a copy of Handsome Jack’s artificial intelligence, a construct created by the late Professor Nakayama.”

Moxxi shivered with something not unlike rage. Her head pivoted accusingly toward Timothy.

“Hon… Is this true?”

He remained silent. Very still, but for a hesitant nod. Moxxi’s stare hung on him, tightening.

“Strongfork and Jack had a falling out, which led to the destruction of Helios. And until recently, that was the extent of it.”

He turned off the video, then folded his arms behind his back.

“But his behaviour as of late has brought to light that Strongfork retained the AI. And he has been working to restore Handsome Jack. If he hasn’t already.”

Moxxi lapsed into stunned silence. And Timothy waited her out; it was a lot to process. Difficult to believe, even. He imagined she would demand proof, if such a thing were possible. Maybe even—

“The day that Helios fell…”

Her voice was quiet. Subdued, but for something that Timothy couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something that put him on edge.

“Everything that led to it…are you telling me that it all happened because of Rhys Strongfork teaming up with Jack?”

“Indeed.”

Moxxi’s expression hardened; her eyes narrowed to slits.

“You intend to use the army to destroy them?”

“Yes.”

Fierce disbelief rocketed through Timothy’s core. He snarled, glaring across at Blake.

“Them?” he hissed. “Plural?”

Blake cooly dismissed him with the shake of his head. Moxxi, too, ignored his outburst.

“You have a deal.”

She reached forward, accepting Blake’s hand.

“You can have the army. As long as it means Jack and Rhys are dealt with.”

“This wasn’t the deal, Blake,” Timothy argued. “You said—”

_“Mister Lawrence.”_

Blake faced him, looking him over with disgust. “We will discuss your objections _later.”_

Timothy flinched at the sting of Blake’s reply. He wanted to fight, to deny them even the _chance_ to compromise Atlas, but a solid series of _clicks_ at his back was sufficient reminder that he was not here of his own free will. He gazed toward the guards behind him, eyeing the rifles they held aloft.

He hadn’t signed up for this. But then again, he wasn’t certain what he had signed up for from the very start.

“Don’t you worry, Timothy, baby.” Moxxi moved forward to trace fingers down his jawline; he shuddered at her touch. “We will take care of this.”

That wasn’t reassuring. Not after the Jackpot. Not after _Elpis._

“Payment is transferred.”

_Wait._

“Lovely.”

Moxxi’s hand fell to her hip; she drew back the tail of her vest, summoning the Winning Hand from her inventory. It sparkled into existence; she passed it to Blake, and Timothy winced at the sight, a dull ache lancing through his prosthetic.

_Wait!_

“Please let us know if there is any way we can assist in your endeavours…”

“But of course. Thank you, Moxxi.”

Blake turned to the console. He pressed the Winning Hand to the scanner, and the interface jumped to life.

This was it. After this, there was no turning back. And all at once, Timothy was seized by gripping, choking remorse.

It was fine, in theory, to point fingers. To blame it on the drugs distorting his thoughts. The haunting memories of what Jack had forced him to endure. Blake’s expert manipulation of his worst moments. But that was all in the past. Now, only he was responsible.

He had to stop this. He had to find a way to sabotage the very events that he had set in motion. 

Even if it meant sparing Jack.

“Get comfortable, Mister Lawrence,” Blake instructed, not even bothering to look his way as he worked the controls. “It’s going to be a long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'VE BEEN CALLING IT THE LUCKY HAND THIS WHOLE TIME AND NO ONE CORRECTED ME??
> 
> Sorry for the wait, folks, things are starting to get complicated. I'm operating on very little sleep and trying to keep all of the canon details correct so don't be surprised if I slipped up somewhere.
> 
> Also...sometimes I get the feeling ESL readers must hate me for all the metaphors I use. Especially with Jack's rather colourful inner dialogue. So -- apologies for that.
> 
> Oh, and if the branding scene is familiar, it's from [a drabble I did](https://twitter.com/SSRhack/status/1296493803868762112) on Twitter some time ago. I loved it at the time and had to recycle it.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting. Hope you like where this goes.
> 
> Gonna hurt y'all so good.


	12. Heist 2.0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important:** I have updated the tags above; if any of these are your triggers, do not read the rest of the story.

_This must be a dream._

Well, that was a poor assessment. Despite the chaos that had been the centre of Rhys’ life, his dreams were actually markedly peaceful as of late. It probably had a lot to do with falling asleep in Jack’s arms every night, drifting off to the press of lips against his neck, the touch of fingers caressing his skin, the comfort of being drawn in close. But this was not that.

No, perhaps it was more apt to describe what he was seeing as a _nightmare._

Rhys sat alone in the cabin of the Phoenix, staring heavily across at the screen illuminating the dimly lit space. It was alive with various images and shaky videos being broadcast across several networks; Rhys sifted through it from a distance with his ECHO-Eye, all the while nursing a scotch. And the deeper he delved, the further into his seat he sank, absently wondering how much of Timothy’s actions were voluntary, as the body double made his way through the casino decked out in Handsome Jack’s old threads. He certainly looked to be playing the part, strutting past throngs of patrons without even blinking in their direction, but the armed soldiers at his back potentially told a different story.

Was it naive of Rhys to believe that Timothy might still be loyal? Even after what Jack had done to him? After what _Rhys_ had done?

The various broadcasts certainly didn’t help. All of the footage taken of Timothy was clearly done in a rush, blurry shots taken hastily as if to confirm an impossibility while also terrified by his presence. And it spread like wildfire across the galaxy. Rhys’ eyes honed in on the tickers scrolling through the various networks, lingering on the bold text.

**Hyperion President Reappears After 7 Years**

**Return of the King?**

And the simplest: **JACK IS BACK**

Rhys downed the rest of his drink with a grimace, and muted the broadcasts. He gazed over his shoulder, a quiet confirmation that he was still alone in the cabin. Zane was passed out in the sleeping quarters, using the scant time they had left before arrival to work his way through the remnant effects of the health kit injections still coursing through his system. Zer0 was with him, either tending to the unfortunate operative or attempting to avoid Jack, Rhys wasn’t sure which.

But Jack, too, was absent, as indicated by the blinking light of the digistruct device resting in the console next to Rhys. He had promised Jack that he would reactivate it after boarding the ship, but that had been hours ago. And as the minutes ticked on, he knew Jack would grow ever more impatient, or concerned with the delay. But Rhys simply could not bring himself to unlock the device. Even if the solitude was killing him.

Zer0 was still behaving somewhat coldly, or at least simply maintaining his distance from Rhys. Zane, having almost been killed, had shown a significant shift in his demeanour once he had returned to Atlas headquarters. And Timothy, well… Rhys couldn’t say for sure. Prisoner or enemy? Regardless, it left Rhys alone, except for Jack.

But Jack was surprisingly Rhys’ only lifeline now. His change of personality had been an astonishing improvement, enough that Rhys had paused to wonder what it was he was really planning. And then he remembered Jack’s proclamation, the heated honesty behind it, and his chest tightened.

He also remembered that he had yet to say it back.

**Process complete.**

Rhys flinched at the ping. He lifted his head, allowing the notification to hang in his vision, growing blurry as he stared up and past the glowing letters.

_Tell him._

Rhys reached for the digistruct device. Paused. Drew back.

His hesitation to reactivate Jack could be explained away for a fair number of reasons. The most obvious being that he hoped to postpone his discovery of Timothy’s possible double cross, to prevent an outburst of hostility at being betrayed _yet again._ But he knew Jack wasn’t stupid, and in all likelihood he would have anticipated this. No — Rhys simply wasn’t ready to face what could be their final hours together.

Because the moment they set foot inside the Jackpot, all bets were off.

Regardless, they had precious little time. Rhys palmed his face, shaking his head in an effort to bolster any traces of confidence, and slipped his finger along the device’s lock.

Jack appeared in the doorway of the cabin that led to the cockpit, leaning against its frame like he had always been there. As with every reappearance, he initially blinked in surprise, taking a few seconds to survey his new surroundings. But Jack was always quick to acclimate, lapsing back into his cocky swagger within seconds, and looked toward Rhys with a nod.

“Rhysie,” he greeted. “…what was the update this time?”

There was no accusation — only curiosity. Rhys minutely relaxed.

“Just diagnostics,” he lied. “I wanted to confirm that everything was squared away, before we—”

Rhys buckled, choking. Jack’s expression changed with his, as Rhys turned his head away to stem the rush of remorse flooding his system. He thought he’d have it under control by now, but he realized it was always there, just beneath the surface. And immediately, Jack descended, dropping onto the floor between Rhys’ knees. His fingers brushed reassuringly across Rhys’ cheek, grounding him, and Rhys pressed back into his touch with a soft moan.

“Kitten.” Jack’s stare penetrated through him. “What’s wrong?”

He did not automatically reply — couldn’t — as he scanned the defined lines of Jack’s mask in silence. His gaze followed the hidden arch — the painful, gnarled path that struck up over Jack’s nose and descended through his left eye. Jack appeared to recognize what he had done, but chose to ignore it, though his hand did momentarily squeeze at Rhys’ kneecap.

Rhys lowered his head.

“I think Tim is helping Blake.”

Jack stiffened. He turned, and his gaze wandered over his shoulder to the screen, hovering for a few seconds. A hint of tension arose in his mask, but faded just as fast, replaced with something oddly reserved.

“Oh,” he snorted. “Probably.”

Rhys’ eyes widened. “…probably?”

“Blake is cunning. S’why he was my top henchman for so long. I wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to convince Tim Tams to play ball.” Jack climbed to his feet, only to drop into the seat at Rhys’ side, scrubbing his face. “…and I mean, I didn’t exactly treat Tim well, back in the day. He has plenty to work with.”

So, it was as he had expected. Jack _had_ anticipated this. _But still._

“You are startlingly calm.”

“Yeah, like I said — it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. Not sure you noticed, but he’s pretty fragile. Despite being a killing machine.”

“Huh.” Rhys felt his ears go red. _Why was that always his trigger?_

Thankfully, Jack didn’t seem to notice. Or he did, and didn’t acknowledge it.

“Besides, I’ve got something else on my mind.”

Jack wouldn’t meet his gaze. He seemed to focus on the screen once more, but Rhys knew better — knew that thousand mile stare all too well.

“…Jack. It’s going to be okay.”

Maybe if he said it enough, it would be true. As uncertain as he was.

“I rushed into this,” Jack admitted in a sigh. “I’m having second thoughts about sending you into that place. It’s not safe, Rhysie. And I don’t want—”

“To lose me,” he nodded dully. “I know.”

Rhys opened his mouth. Shut it. Looked away, flushing with heat.

For the past while, he had been working on a project for Jack, whittling away at it between the moments of chaos. And in the early hours of the morning before Timothy had been captured, he had finished. It wasn’t exactly what he had promised Jack — he never _had_ been able to work out the finer details of his original plans — but regardless, it was ready. There was just one thing left to do.

Oh, and he also had to _tell him._

“Jack…”

“Your operative friend is a liability,” Jack said bluntly.

Rhys blinked in confusion. “Zane? Ah. Well, he’s resting. I’m certain he’ll be fine once we arrive.”

“You want to take that chance?”

Jack’s jaw was set; he almost looked _worried._ It was a strange sight to behold, one that immediately caught Rhys off guard.

“This won’t work without him,” he chided. “And don’t discount Zane. He’s more reliable than most.”

“Not saying much, knowing the types you used to hang out with.”

He glowered at Jack, but as the older man finally turned to meet his gaze, he only offered a teasing smirk. Rhys softened, narrowed his eyes, and gently punched Jack in the shoulder.

“Jerk.”

Jack caught his hand, twisting it in his grip. He easily reeled Rhys in, cradling him in his arms, and Rhys instantly surrendered. An instinctive shiver passed through him, enveloped as he was in Jack’s strong arms. _Like a dream._

“Okay, fine. So send your vault hunter in with my digistruct box. I can handle it.”

“I can’t risk that, Jack,” Rhys sighed. “A localized EMP would knock you out, easily. But I could still hack a terminal, and, don’t—”

He winced, turning to meet Jack’s skeptical gaze.

“Don’t _look_ at me like that, I’ve gotten better at it.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “And at self deprecation, too, evidently.”

Rhys wilted. His lips parted, but his reply had already died under Jack’s words, so he instead turned and sagged in his arms. Jack immediately exhaled his exasperation.

“Jesus, kitten,” he growled. “Would you _stop?”_

“Stop what?” Rhys snapped back. 

“You carry every mistake you’ve ever made like a massive burden,” Jack grunted. “You have to forgive yourself, kitten. You’re only human.”

“It’s not just about this, Jack.” His mind turned to memories of Maliwan dropships descending from the sky, of explosions rocking his planet. He’d wondered countless times if things could have turned out differently — if only he’d indulged Katagawa somehow, come to an agreement that would have spared the lives lost during the invasion. And in his sleepless nights since Zane and Zer0 had saved his life, he noticed the added weight of PTSD, and of guilt; first Helios, then Promethea, and now... “I destroy everything I touch.”

Jack cackled, but there was no humour in it. “Okay, _Atlas.”_

He understood the implication. That Jack suggested with a simple utterance that his success with Atlas was the antithesis of his own concerns. But he couldn’t accept that, not with recent events.

“Don’t do that, Jack,” Rhys frowned. “Look at what I’ve done. To Tim. To Helios—”

“Holy crap,” Jack’s hands folded around his chest, gripped tight. “Seven goddamn years, and you still think that was you, huh?”

Rhys blinked. “Uh... yeah. Because it was.”

“Listen close, Rhysie,” Jack murmured, nosing at his ear. “Everything that happened once you plugged yourself into that chair was on me. Everything.”

“I—”

 _“Everything,_ kitten.” Jack insisted with a growl. “And if you think for a second I’m gonna let you carry that blame anymore, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Something involuntary rippled through him. _I love you, Rhysie._

“...okay,” he relented at last. “Fine. Maybe. But I still have to do this.”

Jack’s arms flexed, pulled him ever closer.

“...I shouldn’t have expected any less,” he surrendered. “At least I’ll be in there with you. In some capacity.”

“Exactly,” Rhys gave a tired grin. “How could we lose?”

“And hell, it’s just Blake. Comparatively, we’ve been through a lot worse.”

 _Skin pizzas._ Rhys shuddered. “Ugh. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

As if reading his thoughts, Jack chuckled, burying his face against his shoulder.

“I’m still confused about why they need Timothy,” Rhys diverted, glancing back toward the muted screen. “If they get the Winning Hand, doesn’t that mean they can access any part of the casino they want?”

“Not all of it.” Jack sat up, following his gaze. “The lower levels are only accessible via a body scanner. So if Flynt and Tim really did lock things down before they left, they would have been cut off.”

“Oh.” Rhys chewed on his lower lip. “So if he got access, how would we know?”

“We wouldn’t. Not until they were knocking our doors down,” Jack admitted. “But even with the ships and fast travel networks at Hyperion’s disposal, it would take time to mobilize an army of that size.”

“Let’s hope we get there fast enough then.”

“Yeah…” Jack frowned. “…so…you want to talk about...?”

Rhys wavered. His gaze descended to the floor.

“…no,” he breathed. “It’s easier to pretend that nothing’s at stake here.”

Jack leaned forward, dragging his fingers through his hair. And momentarily, Rhys was once again struck with awe, yet amazed by the fine detail the digistruct permitted. Everything was just so precise — even all the way down to his individual hairs. He caught himself wanting to put his _own_ hands through it.

“Can’t believe this is happening,” he hissed. “Atlas must have plenty of propeller heads. Are you _sure_ you couldn’t have sent one of them to hack it instead?”

“…you _know_ it has to be me, Jack,” Rhys winced. “I owe you both that much.”

“Timothy made his bed,” Jack growled derisively. “He can lie in it, too.”

It would always be peculiar for Rhys to witness Jack unseated. Even though he’d long since shed the _Handsome Jack_ persona in their intimate discussions, there were certain aspects of Jack’s true self that would never not be incredible to experience. When he was anxious, for example. He would avoid eye contact, remain distant. But he would always need to _touch,_ as if it kept him anchored.

Rhys smiled softly, dropping his gaze to where Jack’s thigh was pressed up against his.

_Tell him._

“Okay, Jack,” he murmured. “Let’s talk.”

Jack gazed at him in question, only to ease back as Rhys climbed out of his chair. Rhys turned, leaning forward to grasp the headrest on each side of Jack’s shoulders for balance, and slowly pressed his knee into the padding by his hip. Jack’s expression softened with understanding, and he lifted his hands to guide him into place; Rhys settled in his lap, maneuvering his touch to the nape of Jack’s neck.

“I know things have been weird lately,” he shrugged, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “And I’m still mad at you for being such a prick. But I don’t want to go into this without having told you…”

He choked; the words caught in his mouth. Why was this so _fucking difficult?_

Jack stroked a thumb along his cheek. His mask shifted with an almost _reverential_ look — which, wow, Rhys would _never_ get tired of that — before he brought his thumb down to settle at the centre of his tattoo.

“Rhysie…” he purred.

“I regret how I went about all of this,” Rhys continued, closing his eyes. “But I don’t regret you.”

He felt Jack tense up beneath him. His other hand tightened its grip on his waist.

“I never forgot about you. Ever. I always had my old ECHO-Eye nearby, charged — kept safe. And once upon a time, I thought it was simply as a reminder. To guard myself,” he hummed. “But all along, it was because I needed you. But I guess you always knew that.”

Jack’s lips parted. He sat back, powerful at rest, but oddly rigid; he looked so goddamn _intense_ that Rhys almost melted into his arms.

“I hoped so, anyway.” A subtle smile tugged at Jack’s lips. Rhys’ heart fluttered.

“I need to fix things with Tim,” he sagged. “But afterward…”

Jack’s eyes edged wide — a hint of wonder. They searched Rhys’ face, asking, imploring, and Rhys acquiesced. He leaned forward, snagged Jack’s mouth, and the older man’s eyes fluttered shut.

Jack was rarely gentle; his movements were always charged with resolve. It remained one of Handsome Jack’s qualities that Rhys entirely appreciated, especially when it was dedicated solely to him — _inspired_ by him. Rhys had never fully been able to accept Jack’s interest in him, even once he’d professed his love, as it seemed like such an impossibility. But when the two met like this, it became real, as if Jack sought to prove it with his touch alone. And as his hands glided along Rhys’ flanks, slicked up his back, pulled him against his chest, Rhys acknowledged his adoration in a soft moan at his ear.

His hands gripped at Jack’s broad shoulders, sliding up along his neck. The press of his lips arrived frantically, with a fervour he could only explain away as a desperate bid to hold on, to _keep._ Jack responded in kind, moaning into his mouth and arching back before canting his hips; Rhys almost went blind at the roll of friction between them. Then Jack’s hands were hooking under his thighs, sliding beneath so that his index fingers followed the curves of his ass, while the rest possessively gripped his legs.

Jack was receptive as usual, tugging Rhys impossibly close, hands encompassing wide swathes of his thighs. But with the reminder of the ticking clock over their heads, there was a fresh urgency about his movements — a decided, rapturous intent that filled Rhys, sent a shock through his system as Jack’s teeth raked over his ear. He whined into Jack’s neck, rocking in his lap, ripping a lecherous groan from the man beneath him.

In the back of Rhys’ mind, he remembered that they weren’t exactly alone. That it wouldn’t take much for his friends to wander in and discover him, bucking and whimpering with need in Jack’s lap.

But with the impending danger of their upcoming mission, he couldn’t help himself. It had been days since Jack had touched him like this, and he realized now how desperately he missed it, as mad as he had been. And with the covetous touch of Jack’s hands cradling his legs, his ass, rutting against him from below, it was just as obvious that Jack felt the same.

For a few precious moments, it would be just him and Jack. And when it came to an end, Rhys wasn’t certain if he could let go.

“Kitten…” Jack’s words escaped in a choked exhale. “Love you, babe. Love you like this…”

_TELL. HIM._

Torturous as it was to break away, Rhys pulled back, panting, gazing into Jack’s mismatched eyes.

“Jack…” he murmured. “I—”

“Well, gents? Everythin’ prepared?”

At Zane’s arrival in the cabin, Rhys wasn’t certain if he was annoyed or relieved (though it was _definitely_ awkward). Jack immediately snarled his dissatisfaction, rolling his eyes as his thumbs slicked back around Rhys’ thighs. A flush of red passed over Rhys’ cheeks; he attempted to climb off of Jack, but the older man quickly gave him a cocky grin, hands clamping down on his hips to keep him in place. Zane did not seem perturbed by the scene, continuing past the pair to drop into the swivel seat opposite. He sank into place, lacing his fingers behind his head, and gazed toward the two with a smirk.

There was a word for people like this. But at least he was back to his normal self. Zer0, on the other hand, took up a seat in the adjacent aisle, pointedly keeping his head directed elsewhere. Rhys swatted Jack on the chest, to which Jack chuckled and allowed him to roll back into his own chair. He could only silently pray that the straining in his slacks wasn’t visible.

“As much as it can be, I suppose,” Rhys answered at last, flattening the creases in his button-up to shake off the heat Jack had sent coursing through him. “Not sure you’ve seen the news…”

Zane spun in his chair to assess the screen.

“Shite. Poor Tim.”

“Oh yes,” Jack drawled sarcastically. “He looks absolutely _miserable.”_

“He’s at the Jackpot, you knob.” Zane briefly glared at Jack. “How would _you_ feel going back into a cell for another seven years?”

Rhys held his breath. Jack tensed; his knuckles became pronounced where he gripped the armrests. But much to Rhys’ surprise, he did not retaliate, even in a quietly muttered insult. Zane did not seem to notice, gaze straying back to the screen.

“How long, then?”

“Twenty minutes or so,” Rhys answered. “We’ll dock at the place you specified. You’re certain it’s safe?”

“Long as the ship doesn’t linger,” Zane hummed. “It’s not a high traffic spot, but I’m not sure it’s abandoned, either.”

“And your friend?” Jack grunted.

“Already waitin’ on the platform,” Zane smiled down at his ECHO. “Got the place secured. For now. Once we’re in there, we gotta move.”

“Discretion is key.” Zer0 tilted his head in Rhys’ direction, but remained stiff. “The Jackpot’s active again. / We must stay hidden.”

“There are plenty of access hallways and service corridors to make use of,” Jack interjected.

“Hold on…”

Zane climbed to his feet, retrieving his ECHO device from his hip to plug into the screen. The images of _Handsome Timothy_ were immediately replaced with that of his map interface.

“It’s missin’ a lot of the aforementioned access hallways, but maybe Jacky boy here can connect the dots for us.”

“So…” Rhys glanced toward Jack, who was busily studying the layout. “Where do we go to access the casino’s system?”

“There’s only a few places with that kind of restricted access. Besides my suite, and the lower levels, there’s one in the Vice District, and another in the Lotto Grotto. The latter is your best bet, but it’s fairly close to the Tower. And to get inside you’re going to have to get wet.”

“Ah…” Zane frowned, zooming in on the spot without guidance. “Shite. Yeah, I know the place.”

Jack’s eyebrow rose, but he didn’t ask.

“How do we get there without being spotted?” Rhys asked. “If it’s that close to the Tower?”

A teasing grin crossed Jack’s features. “You could get a quick change disguise…”

Rhys’ eyes immediately narrowed. Images of Vasquez’s face caught on the psycho’s mask by a thread of skin sprang to mind. _“Not. Happening.”_

“Unless they’ve been cleaned up, there were plenty of ratch nests nearby,” Zane hummed. “Could send Zoomer in to stir up some chaos. Long enough for us to duck inside.”

“That’s a start. But once you kick it off, move quickly. We won’t know who might be watching.” Jack pushed off of his chair, lifting a hand to indicate along the map. “There’s a hallway back here. It’ll bring you the closest.”

“Great.” Zane added a marker. “What else?”

“What about Mad Moxxi?” Rhys winced. “You really think she would work with Blake?”

“Of friggin’ course she—”

“I will seek her out,” Zer0 sharply interrupted Jack. “I have worked with her before. / She might see reason.”

“Not if she knows Jack is involved,” Zane grunted. “But it’s worth a try.”

Hesitant as he was to involve her, Rhys understood it made sense to at least attempt it. And because Zer0 had history with Moxxi, he would be the best to make such a plea. Rhys could only hope that Jack’s involvement would be kept quiet, given the apparent turbulence of their past together.

He still couldn’t believe they’d dated. Because _what?_

Then he remembered her, ah, _assets,_ and it all made sense.

“Well, I guess that’s it then.” Jack passed a tired gaze back toward Rhys. “Once I’m uploaded, I’ll take things from there.”

“Yeah…” Rhys met his eyes, hoping he didn’t look _too_ despondent. “I suppose it’s almost time, then…”

Silence briefly descended. Jack’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, like he wanted to reach out. Rhys already desperately missed his touch. Luckily, the somber exchange was short lived. 

“You ready, boyo?” Zane smirked, snagging Jack’s attention away. He reached for Rhys’ neural input cord where it was coiled and resting below the screen, only to waggle it in Jack’s face. “Time to _jack in.”_

“Hell,” Jack groaned, palming his face in his hand. “I’m regretting this already.”

* * *

  
  
Rhys watched with crawling trepidation as the Phoenix drifted away from the platform. Its engines sparked, flared, and it took off, soon disappearing from view. As it passed beyond the edge of the space station, his view turned instead to the black hole beyond, lingering in awe. It was massive — equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Leave it to Handsome Jack to build a tourist destination next to such a powerfully destructive force.

“How’d you find this spot?”

The platform appeared rickety, a haphazard catwalk barely secured to the walkway above. But it oddly seemed stable enough, with the peculiar waver of disturbed, false gravity.

“Helped a fella escape from here on a custom rocket durin’ the lockdown. Crazy fool actually pulled it off, too. I figured he was headed straight for the black hole, for sure.”

Rhys again looked toward the void, frowning his concerns.

“Ah…and there she is.”

Rhys turned at Zane’s indication, and his eyes widened. The woman awaiting them on the walkway above was truly a unique beauty to behold — head shaved, eyes aglow with some undefinable heat below a jagged scar, and a lithe frame that boasted both grace and strength. Oh, and a badass set of prosthetics that left Rhys awkwardly gawking her way. Her right arm and left leg were both cybernetic — heavy and reinforced, all function over form. And they had him almost salivating.

“Boyo,” Zane muttered in his ear, giving him a solid pat on his shoulder. “Yeh left yer jaw on the ground back there.”

Rhys went beet red, lowering his gaze as Zane moved past to greet their contact.

“Bonsoir, Zane,” she cooed, voice all fierce silk.

“Embeeeer,” Zane purred. “There’s my fiery lass. Good to see you again, love.”

“And you, mon trésor.”

Ember ignored Zane’s outstretched hand; she slipped into his space, hooking a finger into the waistband of his pants to haul him forward into an embrace. Zane’s smile buckled beneath the stab of his incisor, and his expression turned dreamy. Whoever Ember was to him, she had him wrapped around her finger, that much was clear. Rhys smirked, exchanging a look with Zer0, who supplied a bright red “<3”.

“Oh, Zane…” Ember frowned. “The fire in your eyes has dulled… what is the matter, chéri?”

“Ah, darlin'. I love the way you say ‘you look like shite,’” Zane smirked. “Bit of an Anshin overdose. Some minor blood loss. All good, now.”

“Mon Dieu,” she murmured. “And who are your friends?”

“Ember, love, I’d like yeh to meet my man, Zero, and Rhys — head honcho over at Atlas.”

Zer0 accepted her hand, dropping his head in a short bow. Ember gave him a gentle smile before her eyes found Rhys, and then his arm. Her eyebrow slowly rose in appraisal.

“You have an interesting look about you.” She cocked her head to the side. “Your face is gentle. But your soul burns with great intensity.”

Rhys flushed. “…apt, I suppose. My friend…”

“Timothée,” she sighed. “Oui. He is here, I am afraid.”

“Against his will?”

“I cannot say,” she gestured. “But he is impetuous. If he does not regret coming here, he will soon.”

“Where are they?” Zane asked.

“The tower, of course.” Ember’s metal fingers ran along his arm. “I have eyes on the checkpoint, as you requested. But no one has approached it.”

“Huh,” Zane glanced to Rhys. “I wonder what they’re waitin’ for?”

“Maybe Tim’s fighting after all.” Rhys felt his heart flutter. “We need to move.”

Zer0 advanced. “I must find Moxxi. / She must know what is at stake / should Blake get the hand.”

“She is either at the tower, or in the Vice District,” Ember offered. “I can take you.”

“Terrific,” Rhys hummed. “Okay. We better get going.”

“Keep your heads down. The casino, she is alive.” Ember flicked her wrist through the air, indicating to a rather crispy looking security camera overhead. Bits of blackened plastic encasement dripped onto the floor below, and Rhys again flushed red. “Stay behind the scenes and you should be fine.”

“Thank you, lass,” Zane exhaled softly. “For everything.”

“You saved us once, mon chéri,” she murmured, cupping his cheek. “It is my eternal pleasure to fight at your side.”

Zane, too, at last blushed. “Still waiting on an answer, by the way.”

Ember gave a smile, then pressed a single kiss to his chin.

“Go, Zane. You can ask me again when it is all over.”

Well, damn. And Rhys always assumed _Zane_ was the heartbreaker. He hid his smirk behind his hand, coughing awkwardly once.

“Come, Zero,” Ember instructed. “And you two. Stay safe.”

“Alright, boyo,” Zane grinned, glancing his way. “You feelin’ lucky?”

An image of Jack groaning, rolling his eyes came to mind. It helped only a little to ease his anxieties for what was to come.

“Okay, Zane,” he nodded. “Lead the way.”  
  


* * *

“Blake. We need to talk.”

Well after Moxxi had disappeared on some unknown errand, Blake had yet to turn his attention back on Timothy. He had remained at the console, fervently typing away, code scrawling across the screen overhead. Even squinting, Timothy could barely see what was on the screen from such a distance, where he had been forced to sit and wait in agonizing silence. 

“I do suppose I promised as much,” Blake drawled, without missing a beat. “Say your piece.”

He was so utterly dismissive it had Timothy’s hackles up in an instant.

“You said this wouldn’t involve Rhys.”

“No,” Blake replied bluntly. “I said that after this was over, you could go back to Atlas. I didn’t say Strongfork would be going with you.”

Timothy tensed; his calves tightened with intent. A hand on his shoulder kept him in place.

“You’re a fool if you think I’m setting even a foot on that scanner after this,” he snarled.

“Don’t fret,” Blake casually disregarded him. “That won’t be necessary.”

Timothy stumbled to a halt, blinking at Blake in surprise. This was hardly what he had expected, not after the bill he had footed to gain control of the place. “…if you want the army, you have to go through—”

“I don’t want the army,” Blake replied coolly, giving him a look he couldn’t quite decipher. “I never did.”

Quiet, terrifying unease began bubbling inside Timothy. “Then what was all of this for?”

“You were a reassurance needed to convince that harlot to surrender the Winning Hand,” Blake explained. “That, and you had to be seen. By now, your face is no doubt all over the ECHO-net.”

This, he understood. He’d seen the cameras, after all. Through the years of posing as Handsome Jack, he’d learned to spot when someone was surreptitiously filming him. And sure enough, there had been more than a handful of heads turned his way when he’d strutted through the casino earlier.

But — and he was ashamed to admit his ignorance — he hadn’t realized _that was the point._ He had naively assumed Blake merely wanted to use his likeness to bypass the scanner. No, it was meant only for a specific audience.

And with his face on the ECHO-net, no doubt Rhys would see it. Which meant _Jack_ would see it, and would know the consequences of his presence at the Jackpot.

“…holy shit,” Timothy cursed, drawing rigid. “You’re luring him here.”

“Correct.”

That Blake could remain so calm and collected in the face of his disbelief was infuriating. Timothy almost shivered with rage.

“And _Rhys?”_

“They are a pair,” Blake hummed. “Both will come.”

How the hell did he know that? Blake had never been naive — it took no small amount of deviousness to survive working for Jack for so long. But he seemed to understand something about Rhys and Jack that Timothy had only come to know once he had Jack’s hand wrapped around his throat.

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Timothy hissed. He attempted to stand, only for the hand on his shoulder to wrench him back. The guard pressed the muzzle of his gun between Timothy’s shoulder blades, a precise warning.

“Oh, Mister Lawrence,” Blake sighed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“I’m giving you Jack,” he insisted. “Why bother with Rhys?”

The look Blake gave him was chilling. It was dark — laced with some unspoken burden that he almost recognized. But then it ebbed, and Blake relaxed, leaning back against the edge of the control panel.

“Really, Timothy. I would have thought the memories of your facial scarring had been enough. Wouldn’t you like to be the master of your _own_ fate for once?”

Timothy blanched. “…I…”

“Most of your life, your purpose has been to serve. You’ve lived firmly beneath Jack’s heel from the time you signed that contract and handed your soul away,” Blake muttered. “Aren’t you ready to _do_ something about it?”

He couldn’t argue. It was the reason he’d agreed to this in the first place.

_But Rhys—_

Something _pinged_ at the console. Blake absently turned to acknowledge it, and a catlike smile stretched languidly across his face.

“Well, I am.” Blake pivoted, allowing his fingers to glide into place over the controls. “I am tired, Mister Lawrence. I’m tired of being at the mercy of these fools. Every time that my life has been turned upside down, it has been at the whim of these ridiculous divas with delusions of grandeur. Jack, and his ludicrous ambitions of ruling the galaxy. And Rhys, living in his shadow.

“I would like to retire soon. But there are a few things I’ve yet to take care of. All of which are compromised, _yet again,_ by this moron and his artificial abomination. That ends tonight.”

Timothy sat rigidly, eyes tugging upward to the display overhead. The screen flickered, and as the image dissolved into view, depicting drone footage of Rhys and Zane climbing into a painfully familiar fountain, ice filled his veins.

“Wonderful,” Blake hummed happily. “About damn time.”

* * *

  
  
A bitterly cold shiver worked its way down Rhys’ spine, pooling at the base. He held himself, shuddering against the chill, as the water dripped from his hair, his drenched clothes, down through the metal grating underfoot. With Zane's ratch ploy serving up a distraction, he’d done his best to dart quickly through the small waterfall, ducking inside with the promise that there _was_ an inside in which to take shelter, and not that he was running smack-dab into a solid wall. But he still managed to soak himself to the bone, and the cool draft now embracing his slight frame was wreaking its havoc.

At the entrance of the darkened hideout, there wasn’t much to be seen. To his right, there was a large screen beaming its warning — _Security Area. No Trespassing._ But beyond this, the space opened up into a larger room, one that was once intended for maintenance, and following the lockdown had become something completely different.

At the far end of the room, water washed in from above, a cascading rush passing through to some filtering system below. Various tarps were hung throughout — either as noise dampeners or to prevent spray, Rhys wasn’t certain. There were shelves of supplies, carefully organized, and in the corner, a cold, dingy mattress. Beside it, the wall was marked with scratches as if to indicate the passage of time — countless etchings that eventually petered out into a hateful “SCREW IT” angrily carved into the metal.

Rhys winced, looking away. But his eyes found the chalkboard next, where things became even more grim. Next to a hand made map, desolate, scrawling text was left behind:

 _You are_ _NOT_ _Jack._

 _You are_ _MORE_ _than your face._

 _It’s not_ _your_ _fault._

 _You will_ _NOT_ _die here!_

These were not the only messages in the room. Graffiti persisted throughout, attacks on Hyperion, on Jack, even on the body double himself. Timothy’s self loathing was palpable, so much that Rhys choked on it, as he gazed around the dismal living space. The further he wandered into the room, scanning around in quiet agony, the more he understood.

He could never blame Timothy.

“Right here.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder to find Zane, also dripping wet, standing at the map on the wall. He tapped gently on a spot marked “Pretty Light!” along with a cute face, humming in thought.

“Jack’s big secret.”

“And the pretty light?” Rhys asked.

“The reactor powerin’ the place,” Zane supplied. “Biggest eridium shard you’ve ever seen.”

“Huh.” Rhys shivered again. “So where’s the control box?”

Zane paused, turning to assess the room. A beat passed, and then he was crossing toward the back. Here, there was a rather large hologram base sitting idle. Nearby, a ladder descended into another section glowing a stark red.

“Down here, apparently.”

Rhys leaned over the opening, spying the box against the wall.

“Okay…I’ll take a look.”

His calves were a little stiff as he climbed down the ladder, weighing down against each rung. Anticipation, he supposed, dragging along as he approached the control box. His cybernetic arm made quick work of the metal door; it bent easily to one side, revealing a fairly simple interface, sensor, and screen. The Hyperion logo rotated in the centre, below which sat two input fields for login credentials.

Rhys gazed down at his hand, clenching it once as it activated. His ECHO-Eye followed suit; he went temporarily blind to his surroundings as he accessed the Viper drive. Then he lifted his hand toward the sensor.

“Atlas,” Zane chuckled, lowering himself down the ladder while still toting his rifle in one hand. _“State of the art.”_

“Shut up.”

Rhys passed his prosthetic over the sensor, and the logo on the screen stopped rotating. But other than that, nothing. Rhys frowned, waving his hand across the interface again and again.

“This…” he wavered. “Something is wrong.”

“What?” Zane glanced sharply toward the screen. “What do yeh mean?”

“The panel.” Rhys triggered his ECHO-Eye, scanning the controls in quiet desperation. “It seems to be locked down. But why—”

“Gentlemen.”

Rhys flinched at the voice; Zane spun, rifle whistling through the air. A shape appeared overhead, face in shadow cast from the light beyond. But there was no mistaking her; even though they’d never met, even Rhys could recognize Mad Moxxi from her silhouette alone. When a pair of large, muscular goons appeared at her sides, however, he drew straight, flush with potential dread.

It was a bit surreal, seeing her in real life. Rhys had only ever seen her via various adverts, the very first being in Sasha and Fiona’s caravan, ages ago. And she was as beautiful as they’d portrayed, if not more than a little intimidating. A femme fatale, to be sure. He wasn’t sure if he was more overwhelmed by her bold aesthetic, or the appeal of her astounding confidence. She was all fiery swagger — just like Jack.

“Mox.” Zane lowered his rifle, breathing a sigh of relief. “Just who we wanted to see. We need yer help—”

“I must request that you stop trying to hack my casino,” Moxxi ordered, ignoring Zane. Her voice was tight, authoritative; Rhys frowned with concern. He took a definitive step away from the control box, raising his hands into the air.

“It’s not what it looks like, Miss Moxxi.”

“If I wanted to hear from you, Atlas,” she began with a sneer. “I would have said so. Now come with us, before things get violent.”

Rhys stiffened. Their reception was not surprising, but it dashed whatever hope Rhys had that they could convince Moxxi to switch to their side. But still...he had to try.

“Mox…” Zane’s voice drifted with uncertainty, darkening in tone. “Yeh don’t have to do this.”

In his peripherals, Rhys could see Zane’s finger slip onto the trigger of his rifle. Moving slowly, he reached out his hand, slipping fingers along the barrel of Zane’s gun to force it downward. Zane gave him a sharp look in question, expression tight and battle ready. It warmed Rhys’ anxious heart to see the operative so prepared to defend him, even against a former ally. But Rhys wasn’t about to risk losing another friend, not when they could still possibly talk their way out of the situation. So he simply shook his head, and after Zane scanned his face for a moment, he eventually acquiesced, dropping the rifle to his side.

“Away, if you would, sugar.”

A snarl briefly overtook Zane’s features; he begrudgingly passed the gun over his inventory, where it dissolved away in a shine of light.

“Very good,” Moxxi nodded in approval. She turned, gesturing for them to follow, at which Rhys hesitated. He gave Zane a final, wary look, before climbing the ladder. A pair of rifles greeted them, to which Rhys swallowed thickly. Zane proceeded up after him, and with direction from the guards, they followed after Moxxi’s gait.

At the entrance, the waterfall had been diverted somehow — their path was clear. And something about it rubbed Rhys the wrong way.

“Miss Moxxi,” he uttered, trailing close behind. “Please, if you would hear us out…”

“Trust me, Atlas,” she hummed, barely looking his way. “You have nothing to offer.”

“I’m not sure what Blake told you, but—”

“He told me enough,” she interrupted.

“You’re workin’ for him, then?” Zane gave a growl.

Moxxi had started her way up a series of steps, only to pause long enough to pin him with a darkened look.

“Our interests currently align,” she explained. “Which is more than can be said for you three.”

Rhys stumbled to a halt. He met her gaze — one that pierced straight through him — and knew in an instant that she wasn’t referring to Zer0.

“…Moxxi—”

She turned before he had a chance to offer excuses, what little he had, and continued up the steps. A gun at his back forced Rhys along after.

They were led along in silence; it unfortunately allowed Rhys’ mind to wander, buffeted as it was by the impending fears about what was about to take place. But more than that, his mind turned to Jack, about his inability to access the console in time. And between Moxxi and Blake, he had serious doubts he was talking his way out of this one. That left Zer0 as their only hope. But with the threat of a rifle just beyond arm’s reach, he was hesitant to activate his cybernetics to fire off an SOS message.

Hopefully the opportunity would come. But until it arrived, he could do little but obey, and remain silent.

As they proceeded into the VIP area of the casino, and beyond into Luxuria, Rhys looked around in subdued awe. It appeared that this place had mostly been untouched by the lockdown, with the exception of a few peculiar singe marks on some of the walls. It was otherwise pristine, almost enchanting; he recalled a Rhys from years ago that would have murdered to have stayed here. Back before Pandora, when innocence was blissfully afforded to him.

Even now, it was a little bit thrilling. In any other situation, marching through the halls as the _CEO of Atlas_ was almost a forbidden delight, intent on Jack’s personal quarters as they were. Hell, if things had gone differently…

But alas, it was a daydream. A fantasy of the same Rhys that had brought Jack back from the dead without understanding or thinking about the consequences. Now, he wondered if _his_ face would show up on the ECHO networks, next to Handsome Jack’s.

 _Jack._ Rhys did his best to hold his head high as he walked, to maintain whatever illusion of control he had left, but inside he only felt like a failure.

_I’m sorry._

When at last they boarded an elevator, presumably to Jack’s suite, Zane was bodily shoved against the wall by Moxxi’s guards. Rhys was given room to breathe, but only, he assumed, because he wasn’t deemed a threat.

He clenched the fist of his cybernetic, its concealed pistol only a twitch away. A snort of laughter from Zane, however, drew his attention. It was a harsh, embittered sound, reflective of the look he aimed in Moxxi’s direction.

“Yeh know…” he began, brows angled sharply. “Last time I was on this lift, it was at _yer_ orders.”

Moxxi waved dismissively, before holding her hand aloft as if in casual examination.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she breathed. “What you will do for money.”

“S’not about money,” Zane snapped. “Neither was it then, after a point.”

“You’re right,” Moxxi coldly met his gaze. “It was about Timothy. And I’m fairly certain he’s here of his own volition.”

Rhys gritted his teeth. It couldn’t be true. Or it could, and he simply didn’t know how to feel if it _was_ true. Moxxi looked his way.

“So. Why did _you_ come?”

He paused, chewing on his reply. He idly wondered what Jack would do, what he would say, and wished for the umpteenth time that he was there at his side.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Moxxi.” Rhys straightened to his full height, summoning what he could of his CEO demeanour. He stared her down, resting his hands against his flanks. “But I think you are already aware of why we are here.”

He was met with a rather vindictive smile.

“Indeed I do.”

“At least, you know what Blake told you. And if you’ve chosen to trust a rat like Blake, then I promise you, it’s a mistake you’ll come to regret.”

“Hah,” Moxxi laughed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Her heels clicked sharply across the elevator floor; Rhys did his best not to flinch or back up against the wall. But he could not help the small shudder when her fingers stroked the skin underneath his chin.

“I know exactly what you’re about, Atlas,” she murmured. “And you will pay for the crimes of your past.”

“And what are my crimes?” he asked defiantly, as if in a dare.

_Say his name._

Moxxi briefly studied his face, and though it was subtle, Rhys could easily define the hint of something darkening in her eyes. Her voice was what betrayed her.

“Tell me, Rhys,” she hissed. “Do you remember Scooter?”

And suddenly, all of his feigned confidence slipped away. His heart stopped, and he sank back to the wall, feeling his jaw tighten. He had promised Jack he would school himself, remain composed when faced with the threat that was Jeffrey Blake. But this…this, he did not anticipate.

“…I don’t—”

“Don’t you _dare_ try to deny it.” Her hand grasped around his throat, nails scraping jagged lines across his tattoo. Rhys winced, eyes squeezing shut.

“Yes, okay,” he cried out. “S-Scooter. Yeah. He helped us out. Got us a ship. That’s all.”

“And you killed him.” Her voice fell to a hateful whisper at his ear. Gods, she was _so close._ “You and Jack _killed my son.”_

Oh. Ohhhh _fuck._

The grip on his throat tightened; Rhys brought his cybernetic up to snag her wrist — a plea, not anything forceful. Regardless of her intentions toward him, he couldn’t bring himself to harm her yet, despite the beads of blood rolling down his neck.

“I didn’t hurt him,” Rhys shook his head. “It was an accident, I swear. He got _stuck.”_

“Moxxi,” Zane barked. “Let him go!”

“He was only on that ship because of you,” she seethed. “He was a poor, simple young man, just trying to do some right. And he died for it.”

“He—”

“See, I know your type, Rhys. You seek your greater ambitions at any cost, and woe to those smaller people you walk over on the way.”

Zane growled. “Moxxi, _please—”_

“And I could have forgiven it, I really could have,” Moxxi continued. “I understand what it takes to survive Pandora.”

She drew back ever slightly, enough to meet his wild gaze.

“But you weren’t simply surviving, were you? You were a puppet all along. You chose to be Jack’s little bitch, and now my son is dead.”

Rhys tried to argue. But she was right — while he could blame Scooter’s death on Vallory’s men, on the handful of circumstances that brought them there, it had all been triggered the moment he left Helios to chase a vault key, and worsened by meeting and subsequently setting out to impress his hero. So there was nothing to defend. Rhys sagged, relaxing his grip on her wrist.

“…he died a hero,” he muttered in surrender. "If that means anything.”

“It doesn’t,” she hissed. “Not in this world.”

That…well, that was fair.

“So what about Tim, then?”

She frowned. “What about him? He’s here of his own choice.”

“That’s shite,” Zane interjected. “Nothing is done willingly at the prod of a gun. Deny it all yeh like, he’s a prisoner here.”

The elevator began to slow, a peculiar, buoyant shift.

“Even if that’s the case,” Moxxi glanced at Zane. “Timothy is expendable. That’s the entire point of a body double. And that’s all he’s ever been.”

Something vicious and hateful pulsed in Rhys’ chest.

“You’re kiddin’ me,” Zane spat. “Jack was right about you. Yeh really are a ragin’ _cunt.”_

Moxxi’s eyes narrowed. She gestured to the men holding Zane back.

“Shut him up.”

One of the goons gave a sharp jerk of his rifle, hefting the butt of his gun into Zane’s face. A distinct _crunch_ met Rhys’ ears, and in the next instant, the operative fell forward in the guard’s arms, unconscious. Rhys felt a surge of panic, of fear, and surprisingly — of _wrath._ It possessed him, forced him straight with a shudder up his spine. And as the elevator came to a stop, and Moxxi turned her heated gaze back on him, Rhys’ hand slipped free from her wrist, maneuvering to her abdomen.

“Moxxi…I’m sorry about your boy, I am,” Rhys hissed. “I’m not sorry about this.”

His cybernetic clicked into place. A deafening _crack_ echoed through the lift. And Moxxi’s expression changed, lighting up with realization.

“You…”

Rhys remained in place as she fell to her knees, then collapsed against the elevator wall. He barely moved, except for a tremor that struck up in his arms. He swallowed with some difficulty against the sudden thickness in his throat, and deftly turned his head at the sound of a distant chuckle to his right.

There, amongst a handful of armed and armoured Hyperion soldiers, was Timothy. His eyes were wide with… _something._ Fear? Remorse? It was hard to tell. But beside him, offering a deceptively humble smile, was Jeffrey Blake.

“Mister Strongfork,” he called out, a hand outstretched in greeting. “We have been expecting you. Thank you for arriving so quickly.”

And the soldiers opened fire.

Rhys crumpled, throwing his arms up in defence as if it would somehow spare his life. The deafening cacophony of bullets slamming into the elevator wall filled the room, along with startled cries and grunts, and the _clinking_ of spent shell casings against the floor. It seemed to last an eternity, but when the assault ground to a halt, and the dust finally settled, Rhys was left unscathed.

He was also the only one left standing.

Rhys turned, dilated eyes descending on the destruction around him. The wall was eaten away, patterned with gunfire. Streaks of blood marked the paint, macabre paths following the dead guards. Zane appeared unscathed, but was yet unconscious, unmoving and collapsed on the floor. And at his side, Moxxi was similarly slumped. Her head hung forward, but he couldn’t tell for certain if she was still breathing or not.

“Bring them here.”

Rhys flinched at the sound of Blake’s voice. He appeared altogether unfazed by the attack, gesturing toward Rhys with the flick of his wrist. His soldiers immediately advanced, and Rhys sank back in alarm, choking on his objections.

“Wait—”

A hand grasped his arm, wrenched him forward. He stumbled, only to be forced upright, led into the room. He was brought short of Blake, held in place. Behind Blake, Timothy watched in silence, his own pair of soldiers at his back. Rhys’ jaw dropped open, mind swirling and distorted, but an insistent, demanding question drew forward.

“…you okay, Tim?” he croaked.

Timothy winced, almost rocked back a step. He blinked his surprise, glancing to the scene of destruction beyond before returning his gaze to Rhys’ face.

“…yeah,” he muttered. “I…I’m fine.”

Rhys gave a shaky nod, feeling displaced. _Shock,_ he realized.

“G-good,” he hummed. “I’m glad.”

Timothy closed his eyes. Blake chuckled.

“Apologies for the mess,” he bowed slightly. “It was easier to get it out of the way before they became problematic.”

“You killed them,” Rhys gulped. “Why? Moxxi was on your side.”

“She fulfilled her usefulness,” he stated plainly. “I have the Winning Hand. And she brought you to me. I have no more need for her.”

“…ah,” Rhys shivered. “And us?”

Blake’s expression darkened.

“In good time. But first…” he nodded to the soldier at Rhys’ back. “Disable him.”

Rhys blanched. “Blake—”

A boot against his calf muscle brought Rhys to the floor. Another against his jaw brought him to submission.

“Stop!”

The shout was oddly familiar, but Rhys couldn’t place it. His mouth was suddenly full, not with words, but thick with blood. He blinked groggily, and though the stars alighting in his vision made it beyond difficult to focus on anything distinct, he narrowly managed to snag his sight onto Timothy, who was currently backed into place by means of a pistol.

“Remove his arm.”

“You can’t,” Timothy choked.

“Jack…” Rhys gazed skyward, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of a blue hologram at his side. He’d been in situations like this in the past, after all, and though Jack’s words at the time had been more mocking, unhelpful, they were still somehow reassuring. But of course, he was nowhere to be seen. Rhys drooped, allowing the blood to drip from his lips. “Little help here…”

“Blake. Stop. It’s not a Hyperion model, you can’t just remove it, it’s connected to his nerv—”

Something bulky and cold enveloped his shoulder in a vise-like grip. Rhys floundered, gazing toward it in a daze, trying to make sense of what it was that had attached to him. But it didn’t much matter, as the thing soon disappeared. And with it, his cybernetic arm.

A surge of energy lit up in his skull; the pain registered far off the scale, tearing a violent path through his body, spidering outward from his shoulder socket. Rhys sputtered, bent, cracked his skull on the floor. He collapsed in a heap, and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word was "cockblocker".
> 
> Next chapter is well underway. Prepare yourself, kiddos.


End file.
